


A Madness for Two

by cantor



Series: Those Who Serve the Light [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Andrastianism, Angst, Bipolar Anders, Depression, Established Relationship, Exorcisms, F/M, Feels, Headcanon, Inquisition Judgement, Occasional Cheese, The Chantry, excommunication, i mean there's some really cranky shit that needs to be fixed and/or put together properly, improving the game's narrative and its focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-18 23:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantor/pseuds/cantor
Summary: Anders arrives at Skyhold unannounced, lost and unsure, and is quickly apprehended by the Inquisition forces. Many are those who wish him harm, but the trial is promised. Once again, his fate is in the hands of those who deem themselves righteous.





	1. A Deathwish

**Author's Note:**

> I'll put a small warning here, nothing serious, though. English isn't my first language, so, naturally, I expect there will be mistakes. If you spot one, smash my fucking face into it (I want to learn). Appreciate ya!

Early in the morning, at dawn, a tall, cloaked figure entered the courtyard. It was a man, and he was carrying a staff in his right hand, leaning on it. The man was looking around, but it wasn’t curiosity in his eyes. The whole keep had only just began waking up, and there weren’t many people around. Those who noticed the stranger paid him no heed as many people would come to Skyhold every day: guests, pilgrims, countless nobles, new recruits. These people, however, knew what they were coming for, but that particular hooded man looked like he couldn’t understand what he was doing there at all, or, more like, he knew he needed something, but had no idea where or how to find it. He didn’t approach anyone, just stood in place, thinking to himself. He eyed the keep with its rich heraldry, anxious, indecisive whether to enter or not. He probably decided against it, as his tired eyes started inspecting the inn cautiously. “Herald’s Rest”, he read, moving closer to the building. It looked lively and welcoming, although completely quiet at the time; only cooks’ chattering back at the kitchen broke the silence ever so slightly. The figure hesitated, looking intently at the beautiful image of Andraste on the sign above the door. She was carrying a woman in her arms; the woman seemed lifeless, weak, but there was light emanating from her left hand, and Andraste’s face was full of hope and motherly love. She was looking in the future. _Whoever painted that picture had a real talent_ , thought the man.

An upper floor window opened with a screech. A dwarf looked out of it and groaned quietly. He had a bit too much ale last night, and didn’t feel particularly well. A deep breath of cold mountain air made him feel slightly less better for the moment, and he let out a relaxed sigh. Still, Varric found it hard to focus, but when the blurriness had finally passed and he could tell a man from a tree, a lone and hesitant figure, standing in the courtyard, caught his eye. The storyteller couldn’t see the man’s face, and his slouching stature looked unfamiliar, but the staff he recognized immediately. “Shit”, Varric thought as his stomach tied itself into a knot.

Suddenly, the man with a staff felt a firm grip on his forearm. Before he could react, a mysterious hand pulled him back so forcefully that his hood fell on his shoulders. He only had a brief moment to catch his breath and look around, and he realised he was dragged behind the corner of an inn he stared at a minute ago.

“What are you doing here?” Regan hissed, her grip tightening, “Damn it, Anders, what have you been thinking?”

“I needed to-” the mage hesitated to look at a distressed pale woman who held him; and his look wasn’t focused, as though he was just staring in her general direction, “I didn’t know where you went-”

“I didn’t tell you because I had a perfectly valid reason for it!” she spoke in angry whisper, clenching her teeth, “I explained I’d need to go sooner or later, and you weren’t to follow!”

Regan sighed. She could feel her cheeks flush with exasperation, as she finally made herself look in Anders’s face. He’s lost weight, his cheekbones got sharper and looked morbid in the morning sunlight. There were grey hairs in his short beard, it was even, but unkempt; and his strawberry-blond hair got long enough to reach his shoulders. The locks covered his cheeks, concealing the physical transformation that seemed terrifying to her. There were subtle changes, but his features were unmistakable, still.

“How long has it been, Regan?”

She hesitated for a moment and bit her lip, turning her head to look at him. Anger was disappearing gradually, but it was still there, unmoving. “Almost a year.”

“Here’s your answer, then.”

It was meaningless to continue asking him whys and whats. The man was stubborn, and the answers he would give hardly mattered at that point. There was something much more important that needed to be dealt with, immediately.

“Do you even realise how dangerous it is for you to be here?” she asked.

“No more dangerous than it is anywhere else”, Anders’s eyes flickered with challenge. It made Hawke angrier.

“No, you apparently don’t. Where do I even start? Do you have any idea who the commander of the Inquisition is? Knight-Captain Cullen, that’s who! You remember him, don’t you? No matter, I’m sure _he_ does. Then, there’s this Seeker lady, who was so fond of the chaos that ensued after the war broke out that she was sure to put those excellent interrogation skills and charming personality of hers to good use. There are many former templars here, many of whom came from you know where, too, and they sent their warm greetings to me. Oh, and the Inquisitor is a Marcher, and thank the Maker she’s from Ostwick, not Kirkwall! _The_ _se people_ _have power_ , Anders, _real power_ , and won’t hesitate to use it, because, frankly, they have every right to. And still, all this pales in comparison with the fact that Corypheus is not dead, and he’s taking the Wardens under his control! What he made you do- what he’s doing now is so much more vile and dangerous that it might very well be the death of the order!”

By the moment she finished this speech, Regan was out of breath and had to take a pause. All this time her fingers were locked on Anders’s forearm, and her grip was so strong, it probably blocked his bloodstream. The mage, however, hasn’t as much as flinched.

“You need to leave, now,” she enunciated every word carefully, putting both her hands on him in a relaxed motion, “Please! You need to go as far east from here as possible!”

Hawke expected him to have a meltdown, to start shouting at her in an attempt to make her reconsider, but none of that happened. Instead of an answer, he simply put his calloused palm on hers, and, without lifting his head, said, as if to himself, “Maybe it’s time for me to stop running.”

“Listen to what you’re saying! _You are not yourself_!”

Regan was petrified. Never, even in her wildest nightmares could she see such a turn of events. She could hardly believe she heard it right, that it was the man whom she knew through and through, he was the one who just told her _that_. It was something that caught her off-guard; even his stupid, untimely visit _was_ in the realm of possibilities, though highly unlikely. The realisation made her eye twitch with irritation, but the words he had said left Regan stunned, making her swallow it all in one huge bite.

“You and I, we both know this will have to be resolved eventually, one way or another,” each word came out of her mouth in a soft, but firm voice, “But now is certainly not the time for that, Anders.” Hawke felt him squeeze her hand, and it almost made her sigh with relief – it has been too long since she knew his gentle touch. “Perhaps,” he said, lost in thought, “But how long will this drag on, Hawke?”

 _Hawke?_ The name sounded so… resolute, coming from him – he never called her that when he wasn’t compelled to do something.

“I can’t ignore it any longer! Everywhere I go, people- _mages_ are suffering, and I can’t be blind to the fact that all this could have been avoided if not for-”

“Anders, you know that’s not true!” Regan cut him right off, gesturing vividly. Then, she had to stop, as well. “Look, we can’t speak here. I’ll see you out, all right?” No answer followed. Regan stepped away. “It’s safer for us outside of Skyhold.” She motioned him forward, gathered herself, fighting a losing battle with her uncontrollably racing heart. Again, this behaviour was so bizarre, it was almost impossible to believe it was Anders. Each word he spoke, his manner of speech, the way he moved, all of it seemed so alien and unfamiliar, while the conviction she felt in him left no doubt that he was nothing but sincere. Anders has shown little or even no resistance, and it was something anyone who knew him for so long would find extremely difficult to believe. The entire situation smelled wrong, but Hawke couldn’t figure out why. There was a warm feeling of faint hope in her chest, a feeling that seemed to be lost for a long time.

A swarm of anxious thoughts invaded her mind as she watched him move forward with laboured breath. _How is he not dead still?_ She brushed the thought off, angry and surprised at herself. Burning shame has prevented her from looking him directly in the eyes, but there were details she couldn’t miss. Life of a fugitive can crush anyone, but what will it do to someone who had already been broken? It pained her to see him like this: an old, stained cloak, barely holding together, boots – sturdy, but a very poor choice for someone traveling through the mountains. A face that used to be shining with purpose and youth, was covered in small, but deep wrinkles; and he clearly didn’t get enough food and sleep. A woman, whom people knew to always have a powerful, almost glowing presence, now trailed silently behind a man who could hardly take a step without leaning on his old wooden staff. Anders couldn’t see Hawke, couldn’t hear any footsteps behind him, but he knew she was there. Just… being very careful. As always. Ready to spring out, tempestuous, proud, confident – crushing everything that stood between her and the safety of those she loved. It was a painful revelation – after all this, he saw that Regan loved him still. Anders could not understand why. There was one thing he was certain of. He did not deserve it.

 _W_ _hen will it end,_ she thought, _if tensions keep on brewing? He_ _keeps_ _getting worse and worse, and I can’t do anything for him, except send him far away, and his foolish journey here only makes the matters worse. What if he doesn’t make it? What if-_

“That’s him! Hold, apostate!” In one moment, silence was broken by a loud, commanding voice. There were guards approaching, unsheathing their swords. Hawke looked around quickly to assess the situation. Marksmen were taking their positions on the battlements, while guards were moving forward to surround them. Among them there were two tall figures, a man and a woman, in whom she recognized Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra. Cullen kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.“Do not attempt to move, else our arrows will make a short work of you.”

_Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no._

Hawke’s eyes locked with Anders’s for the first time. He gave her a faint, but happy smile, then closed his eyes. What she saw and felt at that moment, confirmed her worst fears. He has given up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Regan asked, taking a broad step forward to stand next to Anders. The onlookers could swear they felt the ground shake.

“This man is a wanted, dangerous criminal, responsible for brutal murder of thousands of innocent people! He must answer for what he’s done!”

“It’s more complicated than that!” Swiftly, she stepped in front of him, ready to draw a dagger.  
“How complicated can this be, Hawke? What he did is unforgivable, and you of all people should know that!” Commander did his best to try and stay calm, but his temper was showing. “All this chaos you see now around you – his work. He will _not_ be running forever. I won’t allow that!”

“You don’t see the whole picture, Cullen, and you don’t know the things that I know,” Regan looked him right in the eyes, trying to contain her fury within, but it was of no use. “So how about we de-escalate this situation _you’ve_ created and, as a courtesy to an old friend, try to _talk_ first. Weapons sheathed.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t agree to your proposition while this… fugitive walks free. Seize him!”

“And _I’m_ afraid that I can’t allow this to happen.”

Everyone froze in place. On her fingers, embers were swirling in a crazy dance of rage. Anders took her hand, carefully, and she felt a scintillating sensation which calmed her hot, irritated skin. The archers twitched momentarily, ready to draw. For a second, sheer fright overwhelmed her – one sign from him, and-

“Champion. You are a respected woman, a hero, and we are thankful for all you have done in the past and are doing to help us now. But your-” Commander hesitated, “friends, let’s put it this way, just for the sake of them being your ‘friends’, are not exempt from justice!”

The wave of cold energy cut sharply. With terror, she saw shreds of blue in his eyes. He had a look of utter panic as umbral glow dissipated. Regan was relieved that what she saw was now just a cold shade of amber. Not blue.

“Much as many like to believe, we don’t actually execute people on sight.” said the woman in a reserved manner, with no hint of aggression towards Hawke. That wasn’t how she imagined Cassandra Pentaghast to be, but the impression left her pleasantly surprised. From what was known of the Right Hand of the Divine, she’d rather stab, not talk. Hawke was thankful that the Seeker was there, as she seemed to keep the situation in control, and escalating it further would only make matters worse. She heard Commander take a deep breath.

“Everyone deserves a trial-” Cassandra continued, but Cullen interrupted her, “Even if the guilt is clear as day. A trial _will_ be held,” he said, somehow managing to look triumphant but threatened at the same time, so his hands never left the blade alone, “This we can promise. Consider _this_ a favor from an old friend.”

“Wait. Who will adjudicate the matter?” Hawke frowned. She had to admit she was defeated, and she did so with great difficulty.

“Inquisitor Wilhelmine.” replied the Seeker.

“The Inquisitor is a fair judge, and an honest woman,” Cullen said, “I trust she will make the right decision.”

“Step away, Champion,” urged Cassandra, in sharp voice, but Hawke could feel she tried her best to soften it, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Reluctantly, she obeyed. The guards let her through and apprehended Anders who, again, didn’t show any signs of resistance. She watched him being taken, dragged away from her – Justice would consider this threatening, wrong; he’d break away, lash out, he’d kill-

Nothing of the sort happened. Anders was tense, so the guards grabbed him harder, as sweat was dripping from his forehead. His body was weak, but it was fighting something; he was shaking as though he was struck by lightning. There was fear in him, too, almost visible.

 _This,_ he thought, channeling his focus at the entity inside, in a nonsensical attempt to communicate, _is what justice is. Not what you believe yourself to be. Have a little taste of what it’s_ _really_ _like._ _How it’s really done. How it always should have been._

The two could argue for many long hours, not reaching any consensus. Both would be stirred up, tired, irritated, ready to bring their agitation to those around them. Directed outside, at first, it didn’t work out well. Justice, or rather Vengeance, was the embodiment of anxiety, questioning his every move, instilling doubt in every step he took, every decision he made. It took Anders months to confess to himself that he really had become a host to a demon. A demon who believed himself to be a benevolent spirit, a protector of the innocent, deliverer of justice. Vengeance would fight for his assumed identity, accusing Anders of straying away from the righteous path over a slight disagreement. It was difficult to ignore him; the demon would always find a way to distract his host from whatever he was doing, despite his best efforts to resist. Through many months of enduring physical and mental strain, Anders was able to banish the arguing inside of himself. Attempts to suppress Vengeance wore him down quickly, and when he was apprehended, he knew he couldn’t let him break out. He was weakened by weeks of traveling through the mountains, with not enough rations to maintain himself, so the task proved to be increasingly difficult. Vengeance was stirring inside, as though trying to crush his ribs, tear his heart to little pieces. The apostate knew he wouldn’t do that, but Maker, it seemed so real. _Andraste preserve me_ , he thought, _grant me your blessing so I can endure this evil._

“Where are you taking him?” Regan asked, directing the question at no one in particular.

“To the dungeons. You’ll be able to pay him a visit, and he’ll be treated well.” Cullen cringed as he spoke the last sentence. “Good job, guardsmen. Return to your posts.” He turned around on his heel and left for the keep.

Hawke was defiant, but couldn’t show it. She approached Cassandra, who was looking at her with concealed interest.

“I didn’t expect you to be so… _reasonable,_ ” Regan squeezed out a polite smile, “from what I heard from Varric, I’d-”

“Of course.” Cassandra crossed hands on her chest in irritation, “His stories tend to be… _exaggerated_ , to say the least.”

“Right. Seeker, if I may ask, how did you find out that Anders came here?”

“One of the gate guardians is a former templar, and he’s from Kirkwall. He recognized his face and reported to the commander immediately, so we set out to make an arrest.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I wish we investigated the events in Kirkwall more thoroughly than we did.”

“Yeah… you should have.”

“Trying times breed contempt and fear. It is shameful that they lead to such atrocities. I cannot give you any promises, the ultimate decision isn’t mine to make, after all… But you have met the Inquisitor, yes? If you truly wish to be _heard_ , make your case; she _will_ listen. This I know to be true.”

“This... trial, it’s going to be heated, I expect. I’ve many things to say.”

During their conversation, Cassandra haven’t moved even once. That was not restraint, however, as Hawke assumed at first, but something different. The Seeker looked like a stone statue, not a living, breathing woman, but still, there was something in her that connected with Regan on a deep emotional level. Regan understood that Cassandra respected her right at the moment when Lady Seeker started speaking to her. However, there was something else, and it resonated loudly inside of her head. Was that- _was she pitying her?_

“Champion... I am sorry, for what it’s worth.”

Yes, she was.

“Oh, I know. I am as well.”

 

Later, in the evening, when the twilight started setting in, Hawke entered the dungeons with a lantern in her hand. Guards let her in without any additional questions. She descended the stairs quickly and found herself in a broad corridor of prison cells. The walls were thin, and there were holes in them. The wind was howling outside, its song terrifying down there. Most of the cells were empty; in one of them sat a small man in strange, foreign clothes. As she moved past his cell, she heard him saying one word over and over, but she couldn’t hear which word that was. Suddenly, the prisoner lifted his head and looked at the late visitor, without uttering a single word. Regan saw tears in his eyes. Uncomfortable, she quickened her pace and moved on.

When she finally saw Anders, her entrails shrank violently. He was chained to a wall, sitting on the messy floor, wet and dirty, next to him lay an overturned wooden bowl. He noticed her approaching almost immediately, taken aback by her alarmed state, and laughed nervously.

“What, aren’t happy to see me?”

“No- I just wish it was under better circumstances.” Regan sat on the stone cold floor, leaning her back against the wall. She ran the bars of the cell with her fingers and exhaled. “What happened?”

“A guard came to bring food and water, but threw the bowl in my face. He was very angry, told me I was no more than a beast and that I’d better eat off the ground like a beast is supposed to.” Anders looked up, inhaling stale prison air, “He threw the bread on the ground and stomped it until there was nothing left, and shut the door.”

“It’s disgusting, and I doubt his duties include harassing prisoners, so probably I’ll have a word with him. Besides, we’ve had much worse, haven’t we?” Regan closed her eyes and continued in a dreamy haze, “Remember when that kid on the road hurled a rock at you, but missed and hit me instead? And if that wasn’t enough, he went right up to us and spat in your face!”

“You had a black eye for a week, and that damned innkeeper wouldn’t let me in because he thought I’d beaten you up, ‘I don’t need no wife-beaters in me inn!’” He looked quite bitter, but cracked up nonetheless.

“We should tell Varric that one,” Hawke exclaimed, overly excited, “He can make a great book out of it! There’s this thing he always says about writing-”

“Best stories are inspired by real people.”

“Yes, that one. Maybe we should also tell him about-”

There were so many strange encounters. It always amazed her how people would go to great lengths to demonstrate their ‘disapproval’. Like when a small group of villagers caught up with Anders and beat him with heavy clubs, severely, and he didn’t fight back because he knew he’d hurt them more than they ever do him. They broke his leg, and it never set in properly. Or, once, someone emptied a small sack of poisoned needles into their bedrolls and they had to spend the night plucking them out and brewing vials of herbal medicine. There even was one young mage in particular, who wanted everything to revert back to how used to be so badly, he ratted out a traveling group of apostates to the templars, who took the opportunity to hunt down the fugitives. Anders and Regan were a part of that group, they were trying to find some sort of accommodation for the people, and the lad was with them. But when the templars arrived, they struck him down first, and then started butchering the travelers, one by one, because they didn’t have any time to react or regroup properly. Those who survived the first wave of assault banded together, and answered violence with violence. When it was finally over, it didn’t take them too long to realise they have been betrayed. The boy was still alive, writhing on the ground. When they asked him why he had done that, he spat blood and phlegm at Anders and hissed “I’d be glad to pay for this with my life, but only if I take you with me,” gathered all strength that he had and attempted to conjure a spell, perhaps, seeking the aid of a demon, but before he could do anything, life abandoned his body, and his limbs twitched never to move again...

“-that sassy enchanter lady, who wanted to set your dinner on fire so badly, but couldn’t channel her anger properly and burned her cloak! It’s good that it wasn’t her hair though, the smell would’ve killed the appetite...Atrocious!” she trailed off, not knowing how to change the topic. She didn’t want to linger in her own memories, it was painful and strange.

Anders coughed, trying to move his sore legs to a less uncomfortable position.

“You seem distraught,” he said.

_Of course I am distraught you bloody idiot why would I look anything but sad if you-_

“There’s nothing wrong really, apart from the fact that the wine they serve at Skyhold is frustratingly tasteless, and I’d….” she held a strained sob in her chest, “I’d hoped I’d never have to see you like this. _”_

“Yet here I am.”

“Yet here you are.”

Both were spooked by the sudden uneasy silence that filled the distance between them. It seemed more impassable of an obstacle than the thick metal bars they couldn’t get past. He was so close, no more than a few steps away, and yet, so far and unreachable; she felt desperate, not being able to reach out to him while seeing his suffering. There was nothing that could be done, but she had to think of something. Questions were spinning madly in her mind, and now, as the time was slipping away, Regan realised she couldn’t afford to lose even more.

“When you told me what happened here, in your cell, you didn’t really answer _my_ question. What I meant was- _Why are you so different,_ Anders? I don’t recognize you, at all! _What happened?_ ”

“Effort happened,” he answered, sharply.

“What effort?” Regan choked on her own breath, exasperated. There was but one desire that controlled her thoughts, it was a desire to _understand_ , but what he was saying stopped making any sense, and it was slowly driving her insane.

“To be completely straight with myself. I have seen... things... for what they really are. And I have seen myself, as well.”

For many years, Anders has been feeling a disconnect between them as they were slowly drifting apart from each other. It was something he was afraid would happen eventually, but couldn’t do anything about. He wished he could explain everyhing Regan wondered about, but lamented it because he could hardy understand what was going on, himself. Despite his transformation, more evident by the day, her support never ceased. There were so many things she disagreed with him on, and that was why Justice never approved of their union, considering it to be a needless distraction. Often, he would say shocking, abhorrent things he couldn’t believe came out of his mouth. Anders knew he was losing control, but part of him was convinced that it would be for the best. When he realised what an abomination he had become, he got angry at Regan for being supportive. Instead, she should have been critical of what he was doing, since he knew that his opinions were as shocking to her as they were to him sometimes. If only she was… maybe none of this would have happened. “Perhaps”, he’d often think, “I’d be capable of controlling myself and Justice, perhaps then he wouldn’t have become a demon and dragged me down with him to this endless path of hatred and destruction.”

Anders looked at the woman who was sitting next to him, hungry for answers, full of determination, and still so… powerless. Vulnerable. She was waiting for him to continue, motionless. “No,” a pang of remorse hit him hard, “I cannot blame her for this. It was my hand, my decision, and I should be the one to carry this burden of guilt.”

“Do you remember the day when-”

There was a smirk on Regan’s face, but it was darkening rapidly, her dark blue eyes lacklustre.

“As clear as if it were yesterday.”

“I remember that in the Gallows, I told you that I’d rather be a fugitive forever, prepared for that life, stupefied by your decision to let me fight by your side… and that idea was so alluring to me then, I would not have it any other way, I was entranced because there was a vision of a better future, and… it was _nothing_ like how things really went.

Hawke. If only I tried to _think_ , not fantasize, if I saw that I’d subject _you_ to whatever fate I had chosen for myself-” he scowled, angry at himself, and stopped at this thought. “No. I _did see._ And still, I did nothing, I let you follow-”

“It was _my_ choice, Anders.” she interrupted him as she couldn’t listen to it anymore. The words came slowly out of his mouth, and Hawke could feel the mental strain behind every sentence. It was too much to bear, for both of them. Though she craved that explanation, and spent many sleepless nights trying to figure out _who_ was behind those words, she never imagined it would turn out to be such an excruciating experience.

“I have chosen to stay with you because I _think_ I know who destroyed the Chantry, and others don’t. Because you needed help. Because otherwise you would have been torn apart by vindictive mobs, or even worse, thousands more would have been killed. I had this hope that I was capable of keeping you in check, keeping Justice leashed, but it shattered when Kirkwall and her people got buried under tons of rubble and slain by abominations.”

Anders’s eyes widened. He was no longer staring at the ceiling, but instead, diverted his full attention to Hawke, whose face, already pale, blanched even further in the lantern’s soft light.“You never asked… after we left Kirkwall-”

“I didn’t want to talk about it!” Regan yelled in desperation, but it seemed that it was directed at none other than herself. Her shaking voice was echoing in sharp, pulsating waves that were painful to the ears. The prisoner in a neighbouring cell whimpered fervently. “I wasn’t ready for that then, and neither am I now!”

She leapt to her feet, ablaze. Her chest reverberated wildly with maddening heartbeat. “But we don’t really have much choice, do we? No one’s asking me whether I’m ready, no one ever will, so I’ll- I’d push it away, I’d think there wasn’t time for that, I’d hoped there would be a solution, but- You… you seemed to be drunk on all that bloodshed, and nothing could sober you up and then-”

“Say it, Regan. Don’t hold back. You always do, but you never had to.”

“What I _need_ ,” she lowered her voice, trembling and alarmed, “is to know that what I believe is true. Anders. I need to know that faith that I have put in you is not misguided. That I disregarded all my convictions, everything I was certain of, for a reason.”

Anders cringed and clenched his teeth with a hiss of pain, but didn’t say anything. He seemed like he wanted to, but it was a rare occasion when he decided to suppress it.

“I need to know the truth! Was it you, Anders, who lied to me to get my help to destroy the Chantry, or was it Vengeance?”

His head fell on his chest in sudden, tormented motion. With agony, he made himself speak.

“Maker knows, I would trade anything to be able to give you an honest answer, so I can ease your burden somehow… But the truth is that I do not know, Hawke, I really don’t. It’s all like a blur, all those years, and the only light in that sickness-”

“Don’t!” Regan was hyperventilating, and couldn’t do anything about it. The vertigo was becoming unbearable, and she tumbled on the floor. As she closed the her eyes not to see the impenetrable darkness, devouring everything around her, she heard chains clanking. She swallowed, uneasy, and said, “I’m all right. It’ll pass soon.” As her breathing was gradually becoming more stable, Hawke whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Deafening silence took hold for the next couple hours but it seemed like an eternity. At first, none of them could speak, simply staring somewhere. Some time passed, and Hawke dozed off, not noticing it or making any efforts to resist. Soon her lantern went out, but Anders kept it going by focusing on it. When he was certain it’ll last for many more hours, he started watching the sleeping woman. Left side of her head was resting upon the stone column, and straight black hair covered her forehead, long enough to almost conceal her eyes. Though his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, he noticed an old scar on her cheek. Through thorough examination, as good as it could be from a distance, he concluded she didn’t have any new ones. It was relieveing. Anders couldn’t hear her breathe because of the wind that started its demonic howls again, but judging from how her chest moved, it was steady and fine. There were wrinkles on the pale matte skin, more evident in the lantern’s bleak light. Regan looked tired as she slept, it was something he didn’t catch when they met in the courtyard. “If only I could watch over you forever,” he thought, bitterly.

When she finally started opening her eyes, he looked away.

“I must have fallen asleep,” Regan said, hoarsely, and cleared her throat before proceeding, “how long?”

“An hour or two, I think.”  
“ _Oh_.”

“Did you dream of something?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t remember when I last saw something resembling of a dream.”

When Regan was lucky enough to get some sleep, she’d wake up more tired than she was before she went to rest. Waking up was terrifying after an empty night – she thought she might have been made Tranquil. It wasn’t true, of course, but it scared her nonetheless.

“What have you been doing while you were away?” he asked, curious, but careful.

“When Varric told me it was safe, I had to return to Kirkwall. I caught wind of the unrest in the Warden ranks and arranged a meeting with Stroud to negotiate Carver’s transfer to somewhere more… safe. By then, sadly, he was already a wanted criminal among those of the Order, somehow… But he _did_ help, as much as he could. The hope’s not lost on them,” she sighed, “Oh! And I also checked up on Aveline and spent some time helping with reconstruction and relief efforts. Did you know… The nobles are _actually_ planning to place Varric on Viscount’s throne, but he doesn’t know yet,” she smiled weakly, “Ah, but I want to see his face when he finds out… Then, later, Stroud returned to Kirkwall, looking for me. He meant to contact Warden-Commander Amell to deal with the Orlesian Wardens, but before anything could be done, we learned of Haven’s destruction and Corypheus’ return. It was agreed that it would be best if we worked with the Inquisition, so we split, and I came here.” Regan scratched her cheek and looked at Anders with patience, “You?”

“I was laying low in Ferelden for a while, coordinated a group of rebels there… until they decided to split and go their own ways. When templars came, I had to spend a month hiding in a cave until they moved on. I meant to visit Redcliffe, even spent some time there, healing refugees, but some of them recognised me and I had to go into hiding again. Killed my share of templars, too,” he sounded somewhat happy, proud even, “even in Kirkwall, I knew they were zealots, but now, when the Chantry isn’t holding their leash anymore, they’ve gone mad with power. I’ve seen them harass mages and common folk alike. It was hideous, and needed to be rectified.”

“There were just as many abominations and blood magic strolling around, Anders. Even Grey Wardens have resorted to blood magic and demon summoning. Power corrupts anyone, even if it is power of conviction alone.”

“This cannot be allowed to happen!” he exclaimed, completely perplexed.

“Working on it. Don’t you worry.”

“As if taint wasn’t enough,” the mage scoffed, “it only makes me glad I left the order. Even if I didn’t, it would be where I’d draw the line. Someone _has_ to talk some sense into them! Athel- Warden-Commander Amell,” he corrected himself hastily, with a barely noticeable note of shame in his voice, “surely would.”

“Did he contact you?”

“No,” Anders replied, “but I can guess he’s… _disappointed_ in me.”

“Are you still in correspondence with Nathaniel, at least?” Regan was concerned, she was afraid he’d isolated himself from people he was friends with.

“No. He sent me an angry letter after what happened in Kirkwall, and after that, all communication ceased.”

They remained silent for a bit. Anders was watching her stretch her sore limbs and yawn. Then, almost out of nowhere, he said, “Since you’ve been gone, there wasn’t a day when I haven’t thought of you.”

“I know,” he heard the reply, but nothing followed. Hawke looked lost for a second, and Anders knew why. She was afraid to reciprocate.

“We need to tell them the truth. About Vengeance, about everything. I… just need you to be honest with them. I hope you understand that.”

“Of course I do.”

“I will testify on your behalf.”

“Don’t do it!”

He suspected she would. Once again, she put her position in jeopardy because of him.

“Why are you using your influence to defend me, yet again?”

“All the influence in the world will never be enough to make people see things the way _I_ see them. My influence, or power, call it what you will, alone, can’t change people’s minds – and the decision isn’t mine. But damn it, Anders, I’ll do all I can to try and make them see, the smallest fraction of the truth, _it may be enough._ I think there’s a chance. Their Inquisitor is young, inexperienced, and _devout_ , yes, but not without reason!”

“What can you expect to prove? You don’t even know what the truth is, and neither do I!”

“Oh, but I want to believe in it,” Regan scoffed, but her look was solemn.

A sudden wave of detachment overwhelmed Anders. With cold willingness, he began speaking, quietly. “Whatever the sentence will be, I accept it, no objections.” As Regan stared in his absent face, numb, he continued, “Even if it’s Tranquility.”

She wavered. Of all things, this was the one she was certain he would never say. But then again, these days she couldn’t afford to be sure about anything. The Champion noticed Anders tense up, trying to conceal his nervousness.

“If this is my last time with you-”

“Don’t you dare say that!” Hawke exclaimed, but in vain, as he continued as if she never interrupted him.

“-then you should know this… I’d wanted to say this for so long-” there was a weird, almost insane smile on his face; his body started shivering feverishly, and each sound was like a torture. She watched him in terror, not knowing what to do with her concern, and then a low, aggressive voice rang out.

“Get. Out. Before you still can. Before I let you.”

The realisation came quickly. She turned away not to see how his face twisted in a perverted grin.

“Leave him alone, Justice. He doesn’t need you,” Regan said in a weary, lifeless voice.

“He will never accept Tranquility.”

“It is not for you to decide,” she bared her teeth, still not even looking at him.

“We are one, and we have always been one. It is you whom he does not need. It is because of _you_ that we are trapped here!”

Hawke turned around abruptly and looked him in the eyes. “Anders,” she said, maintaining herself as best she could, “I know that deep down you can hear me and that you know I’d stay here, but he- I can’t. Forgive me if you can for that, but I- I just can’t do it. I will see you soon.”

Then she turned around and left. She didn’t take her lantern with her, and it went out after she slammed the door.

It was very dark in the dungeons, and only Vengeance’s eyes were glowing angrily for hours, burning with rage. When he finally fled, coveting deep inside of his host, Anders came to and cursed profusely, to himself.

“-with you, it was nice to have been happy, even if just for a while.” he said, into the void, as if Regan was still there and could hear him.

* * *

 

Hawke stormed in the main hall of the keep, almost giving one of the guards a heart attack. As she apologised for it, he and two other soldiers standing at the door, laughed it off, and she proceeded to go forward.

It was late, and the hall was almost empty. In the farther corner of the throne room, a servant was sweeping the floor and humming a familiar melody under her nose. Varric was there, as well, sorting his letters next to a warm fireplace.

“I will need you to testify.” she said, leaving no opportunity to disagree.

Varric was startled. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, Hawke,” To his distress, he knew exactly what she meant, but refused to believe it was true, “Testify to what?”

“ _On_ _Anders’_ _s_ _behalf._ ”

“Is there a trial? When? I feel left out.”

“They didn’t tell me anything, though I suspect it will be held soon. We’ll need to move to Adamant, they can’t afford to delay it for too long, but I gather they also wish to put this matter to… ‘rest’ as soon as they are able.” She sat herself at the table, tapping on it. There was a tankard next to her. It was half-full. Regan gulped it down before her friend could react.

“To be frank, Hawke, this is the favor I’d hoped you’d never ask of me,” he sighed.

“Oh come on Varric,” she pleaded, “I need you with me on this!”

“I don’t really want to get messed up in all that business,” the dwarf furrowed his brow in defence, “and besides, I think I’ve already lost all credibility in Inquisition’s eyes.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _I lied about you_ , and that’s a very serious offence in Cassandra’s book. Why would they believe any word coming out of my mouth? It’s either they’ll won’t let me attend, or disregard anything I’ll say because it’s obviously me just trying to help you.”

“I’m not really a shining example of honesty myself, but that doesn’t mean that they won’t listen.”

“That’s because you’re an _icon_ , Hawke. If you tried to convince people that Corypheus was Andraste’s secret lover, some would actually believe you!”

Regan smiled fiendishly. “Oh I don’t think it’s all me, Varric. People are like that sometimes,” she crossed her legs, shifting on the chair,“and I think they always will be, but that is why I need your help.”

“What can I say that you can’t say yourself?”

“How many people actually know about Justice? And how many of those can be in attendance?”

“Two,” he said, thinking, “three, if you count _him_.”

“Do you see then why it’s imperative?”

“I kind of do, but still...”

“Look, I didn’t want to bring this up”, Champion lowered her head and continued, in non-accusatory manner, “but I never asked Anders how he found out I was here. You know why I didn’t? Because I knew _how_. And I know _who_ ,” she darted her eyes at him, mysteriously.

“He-”

“Varric, it doesn’t matter now. I’m not mad at you. But _I need your help_. You don’t have to defend him. I know how important Kirkwall is to you, and how much the restoration efforts cost. I just need you to tell the truth, confirm that Anders is possessed.”

“I didn’t even include that ‘little’ detail in the book, and I might have neglected to mention it to the Seeker. How will they take it? Don’t answer, I think I know.”

“Well, now I think that not writing about it was a poor decision, but you did so because I asked. So naturally, I’ll be the one who’ll explain why it was... ‘omitted’.”

“Seeker’s _not_ gonna like it, that’s for sure,” the dwarf looked nervous, “and the Inquisitor is going to be disappointed as well. They hope they’d discovered _all_ of my lies, but-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” she winked.

“All right,” he exhaled, regret obvious on his face, “I’ll speak out as a witness, but that’s gonna be it.”

“It’s all I ask, Varric. Thank you.”

He nodded silently. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Hawke.”

“So do I, my friend, so do I.”

 

She retired to her quarters the Inquisition has graciously provided, and fell on the bed, still fully armored. She regretted the decision almost immediately, as her silverite gauntlets pierced the skin of her arms. Regan made herself sit up, removed both gauntlets and pauldrons, throwing them on the floor, then rolled up her sleeves. It was long past time for bed, but she didn’t feel like sleeping.

The moon was shining softly through the glass, and it was somewhat soothing for the soul. As Hawke was looking at the window, she heard a knock on the door. “It’s open,” she shouted, not wanting to move, just turning her head slightly. At the threshold she saw Varric, holding a green wine bottle in his hands.

“Why is it so dark?” he asked, “You can’t see anything in here!”

“My eyes are tired,” Regan replied, “so’s my face. And my brain.”

The dwarf shook the bottle slightly, “I was saving it for a special occasion, but I think it’s just what we need now. Besides, what they serve here is nothing but an insult to the Inquisition.”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“You holding up all right?” Varric asked, popping up the bottle and handing it to Hawke.

“I don’t know, I guess you could say I’ve had worse… But there’s just this one thing that keeps troubling me.”

“Do tell, Hawke,” he stretched out in a velvet armchair next to her bed. She took a sip from the neck and exhaled rapidly, “That’s some good shit. You’re the best, Varric.” They laughed, and she continued. “I just don’t know what to make of the Inquisitor. She’s young, and I mean, _really young,_ and I’m afraid she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“I think she’s doing fine, really. Tries her best to make weighted decisions, and she’s not a fanatic, as far as I can tell.”

“She’s weird, though. When people see me they usually ask something like ‘Did you _really_ duel that huge Qunari guy?’ or ‘Was that you who allowed that blasted apostate to blow up the Chantry?’ or even ‘I thought you were taller!’ but she didn’t ask _anything_. Maybe she wanted to, but something kept her from doing it.”

“I think you got used to have some sort of following, clingy fans, and the like, so you’re surprised when your personal life is treated with respect,” Varric smirked, “Maybe the Inquisitor was just shy?”

“Could be,” Regan gulped some wine again and gave the bottle to her friend, “Cassandra said she’s a good listener.”

“Hate to agree with Cassandra, but she’s actually right.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do if they decide to execute him,” she said, suddenly.

“I warned you, Hawke,” Varric shook his head mournfully.

“Oh, _that_ time when you tried to give me an advice and I didn’t listen?” Irritated, she squirmed on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position for her aching back. “Sorry.”

The storyteller reached for the bottle, but stopped and put it on the table. “It’s all right. I know what you’re going through.”

“What scares me the most, is that...Wilhelmine, is it? she’s quite suspicious of mages in general. I can’t say if the Inquisition can authorise this, but if they could, she would probably restore the Circles. They have templars as their allies, but the mages-”

“Are treated like every other Inquisition member. Just because they weren’t offered an alliance, doesn’t mean they are prisoners. Well, many of them like to believe that’s the case, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“We’ll see,” Regan sighed.

It was difficult to see through the darkness, but Varric noticed a somber look on her face, and her jaw was trembling.

“Yeah, we will. More wine?” he offered with a welcoming gesture.

“Yes please,” she squeezed out a sad smile.


	2. Devil's Advocate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrash'em, Justice!

They came for him late in the morning, when he was still sleeping. The guards woke him up with a gentle kick to the ribs. “Rise and shine,” said one of them, a long-faced fellow, while his comrade, who had a perfectly round head, tugged at his chains forcefully. After several unsuccessful attempts, Anders got to his feet. The trip up the stairs proved to be difficult for all of them. The steps were narrow and chiseled, not wide enough for two men to pass, let alone three. Anders lacked the strength to ascend the stairs, and had to stop frequently, to his escort’s excessive irritation. Guards sighed with relief when they were finally able to leave the dungeon. Though exhausted and short-winded, Anders was glad to be able to breathe in some fresh, not stale, air.

They paraded him through the courtyard, as slowly as humanly possible. Boastful, the guards looked more like two pigeons, their chests pumping with majestic delight. They were basking in their short-lived glory, animatedly cheered on by the onlookers.

“Is that _him?_ ”

“What a disgrace!”

“Bastard!”

“Time to face justice for your crimes!”

“May you rot!”

A lump of dirt hit the back of a manacled prisoner, and, being restrained by the guards, he couldn’t turn around to look his assailant in the face. It didn’t bother him as much as it used to. All he knew was that he had to endure this walk of shame, that it mattered little, and that catharsis was ahead. Many are those who wished him harm, and most of them could not see at the heart of the problem. They didn’t understand. Even worse, they were unwilling to see. Years ago, he prayed that they open their eyes. It didn’t help. So he started praying that the Maker smite them instead.

The guards led him into the courtroom, through the narrow lines of well-dressed people completely unfamiliar to him. They followed the mage with their angered eyes, lusting for dramatic public displays. Some of them sat on the benches, but most were just standing around.

The hall was wide, and soft light was pouring through the window of tremendous size, over the faces of those in attendance. He was shoved towards the massive, intimidating throne made of white stone, atop which the Inquisitor presided, dressed in full ceremonial armour, somewhat ill-fit around her shoulders. Anders doubted that Skyhold’s craftsmen could afford to be so sloppy, so he wondered if it was because she was outfitted in a haste or because she had to do it all by herself.

Around him, time slowed as the air was thickening, it smelled like incense, sweetish and heavy, when it flowed through his lungs. Anders didn’t have to look around to see the banners atop the walls, depicting sacred pyres; on Inquisitor’s surcoat he recognised the flames of Andraste’s sacrifice, and stared into the ever-watchful eye of the Maker. It made him tense beyond any reason. It didn’t just feel like the Chantry, it _was_ the Chantry, even if it didn’t look like one. He had seen several priests, and some of them even were among those in the crowd. It occurred to him they probably even delivered sermons or sang the Chant in that very hall. The fact that he was to be judged there, of all places, seemed ironic to him, so he smirked bitterly.

At a distance stood a group of four templars, led by Commander Cullen whom he identified almost immediately. His face, he noted, was strangely unhealthy, different from how Anders remembered it to be. There were signs of lyrium withdrawal. Did he finally leave the Order, then? Anders’s thoughts on this were interrupted as he felt the men glaring at him fiercely, their swords at the ready.

Memories of his Harrowing, so distant now, but still vivid, flooded him. Anders saw himself, a young man, but already rebellious, standing in a dimly-lit spacious room, next to a quaint altar, intoxicated by intense smell of lyrium. He did not wish to be subject to such humiliation, he didn’t need to prove anything to the templars, but it was a better choice than accepting the brand of Tranquility. He was full of himself back then, so self-assured, confident in his ablities and knowledge. He could slay any demon templars threw at him, he would never give in to temptation, he would see the true nature of any spirit and emerge victorious in the end. And then...

“Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him.” He had lost count of how many times he heard that phrase, distorted and different, coming from each and every person. Years later, these exact words will preface his manifesto.

“Know you this,” echoed the voice of the ironclad templar, “should you fail, we are sworn to honour our sacred duty; you _shall_ die.” Anders shuddered as a warm, wrinkled hand landed on his shoulder gently. “I have faith that you will succeed, child,” he heard First Enchanter say. He didn’t have any need of old man’s words. The apprentice winked at the templars and giggled sheepishly, picturing the Knight-Commander trying to get out of his ridiculous armour. He approached the strange altar and submerged his hand into the blue glowing liquid. It was cold to the touch, and dried off of his skin in a matter of seconds, and at first he couldn’t hear a sound, but then a strange arcane song started resonating in his head. Anders felt drowsy, and then a sense of such unnatural dread overwhelmed him that he thought he could not endure it, that he failed his trial when it hasn’t even began…

Since then, it has been far too many times his fate was in the hands of the others. “NO MORE,” he heard a poisonous whisper at the back of his head, “NO MORE. YOU WILL NOT BE A SLAVE AGAIN, NOT TO THEM, NOT TO ANYONE.” The mage gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, “Not to _you_.”

“For this hearing,” Cullen gestured towards Leliana, who was skulking in the shadows behind the stone pillar next to the throne, “we have relieved Lady Montilyet, for we have information pertaining to the case… as well as some personal interests.”The general turned towards the spymaster, though he could not even see her properly. “May I begin, Sister Leliana?”

The woman nodded silently in response as she started listening attentively to every words, like a model student. Cullen started pacing back and forth, between the prisoner and Inquisitor’s throne. Regan, in the front row, glanced at the accused, giving him a quick nod. Anders lowered his gaze, chagrined.

“Before you today, Inquisitor, is the apostate who has destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. By his hand, many of the faithful have fallen, among them, Grand Cleric Elthina, and countless others. Debris of the explosion have buried half of the city, inflicting death and injury to those who weren’t even affiliated with the Chantry, which, in his opinion, was to blame. As of this day, Kirkwall hasn’t recovered yet. While this is clearly the most atrocious of Anders’s crimes, he is also responsible for the unrest among the mages and templars years prior. Furthermore, one matter has recently been brought to our attention, an aggravating circumstance, if you will. It is a claim that he is, in fact, an abomination, having made a pact with some sort of spirit.” He turned suddenly and looked Anders right in the eyes. “Answer, apostate: are those allegations true?”

It was the last straw for Anders.Everything around him, even the air, weighed so heavily, it felt to hims as if the Divine herself was smothering him with her dead, cold, invisible hands. The Chantry would always find a way to haunt him. He fought the urge to retch, but something flared up inside of his chest, violently. In a matter of seconds, from a passive, dismal man, a man who has given up, he turnedinto someone defiant, with an iron will to keep on fighting, even if the fight was lost long ago.

“More or less so, but it wouldn’t call it possession, precisely.”

Commander sneered. “What do _you_ call it, then?”

“ _An alliance_.”

A wave of muffled whispering rolled over the hall.

“Slow down,” the Inquisitor said, patiently, “How exactly did that happen?”

“Do you mean if I let myself be possessed willingly? If so, the answer is yes.”

His sudden impudence baffled Hawke. She got a completely opposite impression from a short time she got to spend with him after he arrived, but she was sure Anders was set in his ways at that point. She knew perfectly well his mood could change rapidly, but chose to hope for the better. Regan grew resentful as she realised that she deliberately let herself be fooled. Disdain gnawed at her, and even though it was Anders who was being tried, not Hawke, she couldn’t help but feel that the court would extend its judgment to her as well. Being on trial at the mercy of the Inquisitor, who, to her, didn’t seem particularly experienced or discerning... It burned on her cheeks like a slap; it was an insult. But the Champion had to curb her resentment. “Do not antagonize them, it won’t be of any help to you,” she kept repeating to herself.

“What manner of spirit is it?” Dorian asked, his curiosity piqued.

“One of justice,” Anders replied.

“Forgive me, _Altus Pavus,_ but whatever difference does it make?” Vivienne, her dark skin glistening in the light, spoke in a well-meaning, reserved manner, but there was so much vitriol in her words that Dorian cringed involuntarily.

“It may matter little to you, _Enchanter_ , but it might shed some light on this case, or perhaps even prevent similar incidents in the future,” the tevinter scratched his chin. The eyes of the entire court were upon them, watching closely, and knowing that, he did not intend on losing.

“Will it make you rest easier if you knew it was a _demon_ that calls itself Justice,” she mocked, “not pride? I wonder, what is your interest here… Our _southern_ tragedies must trouble you greatly,” she smiled, and her snow-white teeth hurt his eyes with their blinding radiance, even from the opposite side of the hall.

“Show some respect! You can settle your differences after the trial is over,” Cullen scolded the mages as he would two bickering children, “now is not the time.” When he saw both of them grow calm, albeit reluctantly, he turned to Wilhelmine and nodded his head. “Inquisitor, please continue.”

“I meant to ask,” she was squeezing her thumb with her other fingers nervously, “what made you do it?”

“I am afraid that is a long and complicated story,” inevitably, his contempt was forcing its way through.

“Everyone has to have something to say for themselves,” Inquisitor countered, “no one can offer you better defence than you yourself. Take your time.”

Even though in such a tense atmosphere they could only guess at each other’s impressions, both Hawke and Anders were equally astonished by Inquisitor’s response. Anders, for one, was surprised at her patience, a rare trait for those considering themselves righteous. He made a weak attempt on toning down his boldness. With great passion in his voice, he began his speech.

“When I was serving under Warden-Commander Amell of Ferelden, our duty took us to the place called the Blackmarsh. A powerful demon dwelled within, holding villagers prisoner in the Fade to fulfill its twisted fantasies. It was where we encountered a spirit of Justice, attracted by their suffering, willing to offer his help. To defeat the demon, we had to return to the mortal realm, but when we did, _he..._ got trapped in a body of a dead Warden, and couldn’t return to the Fade. With his help we managed to slay the demon and its minions, and Justice’s aid was welcome, for a time. After the events at Amaranthine, the Warden-Commander left, and Justice and I traveled side by side. Back then, I was a young, selfish man, unconcerned for anything beyond my own foolish whims. I was glad to be free of the confines of the Circle, untouchable, but the fate of those who were still imprisoned bothered me little,” he sounded truly remorseful, “But Justice… he saw this immediately-”

Vivienne laughed heartily. “Imprisonment? Is that what your _friend_ thinks of the laws of the mortal world? Oh, but that doesn’t seem surprising _at all_.”

Anders snapped. “And who might you be, to spill your poison left and right? Is that your only reason to be here?”

“Oh, but who I am must be entirely irrelevant to you,” she replied, “As to what my interest is… I guess I wanted to see the devil in the flesh, so to speak.”

“All objections will be heard after the testimony part is over,” Wilhelmine waved her hand in a reconciling gesture, then turned her head to Anders, “Continue.”

“Justice… opened my eyes to the mages’ plight. I was stubborn, at first, and uncaring, but slowly, after seeing how it all was from a new perspective, I… _understood_. Together, we would right the wrongs, and make those who have abused their power pay for their crimes. So we made a pact, and I became his living host.”

He made himself remember how it happened. How he lost all the power over his own body, his mind shattered to thousands of pieces and then put back together, how his identity was dissipated, twisted by Justice’s, and Justice’s purpose corrupted by his anger. How the emptiness in his soul was replaced with an unquenchable purpose.

“Inquisitor, I have a question, if you will allow it,” Dorian looked at her intently, and went on talking when he saw her nod approvingly, “A spirit, or a demon, if you will, needs a host to live outside the Fade, yes, but if what you say is true, why would you let him in your body, if he already possessed one?”

“The Warden he possessed, Kristoff, had a wife _._ When she found out what happened... It was a huge hit for her, not being able to give his body a proper burial, even more so than his death. Justice… resented that, he wanted to give some peace to the grieving widow, so that was why decided on a different host.”

“Thank you,” Dorian replied and motioned the accused to continue.

“When we became one… Something changed in him, and, in turn, in me. Perhaps it was my hatred… So he transformed into something different than Justice, but stemming from the same root. Something violent and bloodthirsty.”

A weak voice rang out.

“It is Vengeance, and Vengeance is always blind.”

Everyone turned to see Cole, a strange young man no one noticed sitting on the floor next to Inquisitor’s throne, rise and point his finger at Anders. Hawke stood up, words stuck in her throat.

“It’s towering behind his back, can’t you see?” The man was taken aback as the lad in a weird-looking hat approached him and touched his forehead as if to check whether he had a fever. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, “for what it did to you.”

“Be a dear, Inquisitor,” Vivienne began, clearly annoyed, “restrain your _pet_. We do not need it to interfere with the official proceedings.”

“But I didn’t bother anyone, Vivienne!” Cole pleaded as he sat on the floor next to where Anders was standing, “You speak of what you see, so confident; you attack, pounce viciously… But I told them what I saw, too,” he started rocking back and forth, hugging his knees, “Weight crushing on his shoulders, a whisper, treasonous, so loud... It’s sick, suffocating… sinful. He has a deathwish,” he said, almost surprised at what he saw in him.

The Inquisitor sat silent for a while waiting for the crowd to calm down.

“I have never heard of demons of vengeance,” she said, finally.

“They must be rare indeed,” Dorian attested, to Vivienne’s greatest dismay.

“If it is possession, can it be controlled, at least to some extent?”  
“No,” Anders answered, “There are moments, yes, but he is powerful, almost beyond limit, and no efforts can keep him down if he wants to come out. Recently, I have been trying to suppress him, with mixed success, but I have no illusions on who is the strongest among us.”

“But _who_ is in control, then?”

“I am.”

“Is it always you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Then... who destroyed the Chantry?”

“ _I did._ ”

“Whose decision was it?”

“I… I can’t say.”

Inquisitor sighed. Before this trial began, everything seemed quite clear to her, but the more the hearing progressed, the more difficult it proved to actually be. A sudden rush of fear swallowed her whole. This is the decision the whole world would look up to. And if they would deem it to be wrong, all the consequences would be the Inquisition’s, and in turn, hers. She was looking lost and unnerved, fidgeting on the massive throne that seemed to be choking her with its power. Cassandra saw this and intervened.

“If you despise the Circle so much because, as you say, it is a prison, why not destroy the Gallows?” She demanded, “Why not kill the Knight-Commander?”

“Mages _will never_ be free unless the Templar Order ceases to be!” he exclaimed, “Even if there are no Circles! It was the Chantry that gave birth to both of them, and because of that, it _must_ be brought down!”

“Do you believe in the Maker, Anders?” Wilhelmine asked, suddenly.

“Yes, with all my heart.”

“But you would act against Him?”

“No! _He has allowed it_ , and was it not so, He would have smitten me! We are His second children, and His love for us is endless… But He would turn away, yet again, if He was to see the atrocities the Chantry has committed!”

Cassandra’s voice broke. “You dare claim to speak for the Maker?!”

The Inquisitor put herself together and intervened before the situation got even more heated. “But surely you couldn’t have hoped to destroy the Chantry as a whole by this act?”

“I have made but a first step,” answered the apostate, “Can’t you see that the Chantry has failed all of us? It grabs and grabs and grabs for power, and its hunger will never be satiated! How can you support it, after it declared _you_ heretic just because its position was being threatened?”

“We serve the Maker, _not_ the Chantry,” Cullen said, angry. “It had disowned us, yes, but since then it has been slowly coming to its senses. After all this is over, Maker willing, the Chantry will never be the same. We support the faithful who were abandoned in the time of great need. If that makes us complicit in your eyes, let it be so, but I will not suffer accusations of corruption from the likes of _you_!”

Gracefully, as if she stepped on water, Leliana stepped out of the shadows, her porcelain skin covered by a donned cowl. The attention of the whole court was now on her.

“Was it part of your plan that the people be inside during the explosion?” she asked strictly.

“It wasn’t a matter I considered,” Anders said, insolent, “Whoever was there, they deserved what they got.”

“Grand Cleric Elthina was innocent of any crime. She did nothing to deserve such fate.”

“Exactly! She did nothing! She _chose_ to do nothing, to turn a blind eye to all that has been happening in Kirkwall, while having power to change things. She ignored the people in her care, who were desperate for help, and for that, she deserved to die.“

Whispering was swarming in the main hall of Skyhold. “Madman,” the people were muttering, “madman, a murderer!”

“Thank you for your answer,” cut the Inquisitor, “We shall now hear the testimonies.”

Cullen looked at Hawke with a question in his eyes. “You first,” she said, returning the gaze and making a welcoming gesture.

“I have known the apostate Anders since before he allegedly joined the Grey Wardens. He was one of the lucky ones who survived the Kinloch Hold massacre, but only because he escaped the Circle before it all began. I didn’t know him _well_ , but it was understood that he has always been rebellious and disobedient, ever since he was brought to the Circle. Speaking of his escape attempts… There were two, on _my_ memory, but there were records of at least _seven_ of them. With all this, for some reason, First Enchanter Irving saw something in him and believed Anders to be harmless-”

Anders stirred. “Did he-”

“Both First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir perished at the Conclave,” the general snapped, “I will not have you besmirch their memory.” Anders didn’t reply, staring at the floor instead. There was grief in his eyes. Commander gathered himself, took a deep breath and continued. “In Kirkwall, the accused ran a clinic where he would heal and care for those in need. It was widely known, but many templars in Kirkwall were transferred from Ferelden, and so, some of us chose to ignore the fact that it was ran by an apostate, since he provided his services, asking for nothing in return. It had fooled us,” he admitted dryly, “and we should have done our job more dutifully. I was there when the Chantry exploded, I saw him talk… For all my years in the Order… I haven’t seen anything more vile that that,” Commander turned his head to look at Wilme, “But he didn’t seem possessed to me. Glad to have gotten what he wanted, perhaps, but not possessed. He must be terribly pleased with himself... If you wish to show mercy to him, Inquisitor, give him a clean death, even though he doesn’t deserve even _that_.”

As Cullen walked away to take his position among the templars, who looked at him with great admiration, Leliana stepped in his place, holding papers in her hands. She waited until the onlookers stopped their small-talk and turned their gazes to her.

“I have heard of you,” she said, “Were you the author of the Mage Manifesto?”

“Yes, but Kirkwall has banned it.”

“But it was popular nonetheless,” countered the spymaster, “even outside of the Free Marches. It would be hard now to find a mage who is _not_ familiar with your work.”

Anders squinted his eyes in suspicion. Her reaction and genuine interest puzzled him, and he wasn’t sure whether she referred to the Chantry explosion or his manifesto. “Am I… supposed to be flattered?”

“No, I just assumed you would like to know. Anyway, the Warden reports indicate you had abandoned the order. Warden-Commander Amell spoke highly of you, when last we met; he had told me you were a great recruit, and proved to be a good teacher for the apprentices of the order.”

“Warden-Commander was a dear friend, and a mentor,” Anders lamented.

“ _Was?_ ” Leliana tilted her head in surprise.

“I doubt he would approve of the things I have done,” the mage sounded remorseful, “But… after he left on his quest to research the Calling, and when the Wardens have learned that I was...” he hesitated as the words hurt his throat, “ _an abomination_ , they didn’t take kindly to it and… there was a fight. I ran, never to return.”

“Then you went to Kirkwall, to aid a friend of yours, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, Karl Thekla was found dead, along with a group of templars.”

“Yes, it was _I_ who killed him,” Anders articulated, fighting the fury that stirred within, “but he was already dead when I was able to reach him. His blood is on their hands. Karl did not deserve the brand, and they forced it on him because of some crime they imagined!”

“And Ser Otto Alrik?”

“Mine, as well.”

“And the reasoning behind that is?”

“You seem to know a great deal of things, yet you have no idea what he was planning?” Anders was exasperated, “You are the Left Hand of The Divine, and you haven’t heard of the Tranquil solution?”

“I have. And I know that it was rejected not just by Divine Justinia V herself, but by the Knight-Commander Meredith as well,” Leliana answered in a calm voice.

“Then why did you even ask? What did you want to hear from me? That he reveled in the suffering of innocent mages, that he was a vicious, bloodthirsty torturer? That all that mattered to him was the agony of those who were unlucky to be born with the gift of magic? Even the Order barely tolerated his presence, and that was why the investigation into his murder was soon closed!”

“Yes, that was exactly what I wanted to hear. Thank you.”

Varric rose from his place, to Hawke’s surprise. He glanced at his friend quickly, and there was something she read in his eyes, something that spoke to her. The expression was familiar, and she concluded that his body language conveyed a simple, short message: _you’ll thank me later._

“I’ll be brief. Curly here said he didn’t think Anders was possessed by a demon… And he’s mistaken. Anders _is_ possessed, and I have seen Justice, or Vengeance, if you prefer, manifest. Not just once, even-”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra almost screeched, “why do you allow this… _liar_ to be present at the hearings?”

“Seeker, let me finish this. I understand you’re angry, and I now you’ve learned that I lied to you again, that I didn’t mention him being possessed neither to you nor in my book. _I can see that._ But this trial isn’t about our… spat,” the dwarf turned to the audience, then to the Inquisitor. “There was a reason why that particular decision was made, and it’s irrelevant now. I can answer your questions later. What _is_ relevant, though, is that Vengeance did change him. Last years he spent in Kirkwall, he wasn’t himself anymore. At times, no one could recognise him, but there were times _Anders_ would come out. Once it even got as far as him trying to give me something, his most valuable possession, give it away without a second thought. Like he didn’t care about anything anymore. And he wanted to give it to _me,_ not to Hawke or his other friends. It happened a few weeks before the explosion, and we should have guessed at that point. I think Justice has broken him as a man, trying to smother everything that made him _him,_ because to me it looked like he was ready to die long before he even planned the attack.” He noticed the templars glaring at him, Cassandra folding her arms on her chest, flowing with rage. “Look, what I wanted to say is that… I don’t know who was behind the explosion, but I know _Anders,_ and he wouldn’t have even concieved such an idea. Without Vengeance, it never would have happened. And believe me, I have experience with crazy, so I know what I’m talking about.” He turned around and left the spotlight, taking his place in the back row. “I’ll let Hawke finish this.”

Now was the time. Regan stood before the Inquisitor, resolution clear on her face. It occurred to her that she never thought on the words she would have to say before the court, but she believed she could handle this. Before she started speaking, Regan looked at Anders. His eyes were empty and lifeless, as if all vigour was siphoned out of him. He was staggering, and it was difficult to stay on his feet, but he persevered. “Maker, give him strength,” Regan pleaded in her mind, “and watch over us all in this endeavor.”

“I have known Anders,” she began, “for over ten years. From the beginning, he was entirely honest regarding his… state. Everything was well at first, and he wasn’t affected as much. If you met him back then, you wouldn’t even have guessed he was _different._ But as the matters in Kirkwall were getting worse, so was Anders. As the time went by, there was less and less of him remaining. He was deteriorating, but kept doing the good work nevertheless, helping mages, healing refugees, offering his hand to all those in need. The work that nobody wanted to do in Kirkwall, and he was doing it free of charge. _He needed help._ He still does-”

The Commander frowned. “Champion, how can you condone this?”

“Condone?!” Hawke choked on her own breath. “I never _condoned_ anything, Kirkwall was my home!”

“But it sounds like you’re praising, not defending him,” Cullen said, “so I can’t see the importance of what you’re saying now. Besides, it is widely known you had… _an affair_.” Regan could feel how uncomfortable he was saying these words. The concept of a relationship that was more than that of a commander and subordinate was _alien_ and embarrassing to him. He was unprepared for such, and in his mind, condemned others for what he couldn’t have. She knew just how to use that to her own advantage.

“Is that envy that I sense in your words, Commander?”

There was giggling from all the corners of the courtroom. Even Dorian snickered quietly, until he was hushed by an angry glance from the Seeker.

“Forgive me my disrespectful remark, Inquisitor,” Hawke looked at the young woman and smiled, “but I cannot see how Commander’s _objection_ is relevant to the case.”

The general choked. “It _is_ relevant because from how I see it, you are willing to close your eyes to his crimes because of it!”

“If my memory serves me right, you also ignored some of them. Does your ‘affair’ argument apply to you as well, then?”

“Show some respect! It is not the time for jests!”

“If you wish to judge _me,_ Cullen _,_ I suggest you do it after _this_ trial is over,” Regan cut it sharply, “because I am not finished yet.”

Before Hawke could continue, however, Vivienne interfered, disapproval obvious in her dark eyes.

“Champion, are we to believe that this renegade is to be excused for his crimes merely because he is an abomination? That must be a joke, because such argument was never enough to justify killings committed in a state of possession!”

“I am not finished yet, and I would appreciate it, madam, if I were not interrupted at every turn!”

She said the words politely, but firmly, and expected the Enchanter to back down. But Vivienne was already in the middle of her accusatory spree, and for her, stopping was not an option.

“The Templar Order was performing atrociously in Kirkwall. They should have made him Tranquil when they had the chance, and all this would have been avoided!”

Anders heard the sound of glass shattering in his head, and before he knew it, he was forced out. Now, all he could do was watch. Watch, as if from afar, see his body being taken over, unable to move a single limb. He would scream, but his mouth was opening and closing without any sounds coming out of it. If he regained control at that moment, he would tear his eyes out and bleed to death, squirming on the floor for everyone to see.

The whole court was shocked as it witnessed the transformation. The apostate was engulfed in arcane flame, his skin torn in places, strange essence of blue colour flowing out of his eyes. The aura of flame destroyed his manacles, and molten metal was trickling down, on the floor, where his chains fell. It turned to face Vivienne.

“No!” Regan shrieked, “What did you do?!”

“WHO ARE _YOU_ TO SPOUT YOUR BASELESS ACCUSATIONS, YOU, TO WHOM THE SUFFERING OF YOUR FELLOW MAGES IS BUT A FANCY STORY OR A GAME TO BE PLAYED? YOU, WHO CANNOT SEE BEYOND HER SELFISH GREED, WHO VIES FOR POWER ENDLESSLY, EVER-HUNGRY?”

Vengeance’s voice was so low it hurt the ears, and some even had to cover them with their hands. Most of the people in attendance have never seen a demon, let alone a sudden transformation, so they were standing still, paralyzed by the picture they weren’t ever hoping to witness. There was a loud thud. One of the women lost her consciousness. As some gentlemen rushed to help the unfortunate lady, Vengeance paid them no heed, going on with his declamation. The templars unsheathed their swords as he hurled his guards back, ready to lash, but the Inquisitor held her hand in the air, so they stopped and waited for her signal.

“AND YOU,” he pointed at Cullen, “WHO HAS WILLINGLY CHOSEN TO BE BLIND, WHO FOLLOWED A MADWOMAN ON A KILLING SPREE, WHILE IT WAS WITHIN YOUR POWERS TO STOP THAT INSANITY! YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO _LEAD_ , FOR YOU CAN ONLY FOLLOW! _Y_ _OU_ WOULD BRAND ME GUILTY? PERHAPS THE HANDS OF THE DIVINE SHOULD BE THE ONES TO _JUDGE_ , WEAK, INCOMPETENT WOMEN WHO WERE SUPPOSED TO ERADICATE THE INJUSTICES, BUT MADE THEIR CHOICE NOT TO?!”

Leliana lowered her head in shame, but Cassandra remained steadfast, gritting her teeth.

“IS THIS THE MAKER’S WORK TO SEE HIS CHILDREN SUFFER AND DO NOTHING? HOW HAS YOUR SEARCH FOR THE _TRUTH_ FARED SO FAR, IF YOU COULD NOT SEE THE OBVIOUS, WHEN THE ANSWER WAS RIGHT BEFORE YOU?”

At last, he started walking towards the wide-eyed and stunned Inquisitor. “AND I AM TO BE TRIED BY _YOU,_ INGORANT OF ALL CORRUPTION, EATEN AWAY BY DOUBT?! YOU CANNOT JUDGE ME, FOR YOU ARE BUT A MERE MORTAL, AND YOU ARE IN NO CAPACITY TO SENTENCE ME IF OUTRAGE IS WHAT YOU STAND FOR!”

“Put him down,” Vivienne mumbled, “We have seen enough.”

Hawke ran to him to stand in his way. Even she herself couldn’t say if she was shielding him or the Inquisitor. “Anders, stop! You don’t have to do this!”

“I AM NOT ANDERS! I AM JUSTICE, AND YOU WILL HAVE NO CONTROL OVER ME! THE WORST THE MAGES CAN OFFER ARE THE ONES LIKE YOU, AND YOU ARE _THEIRS_ , NOT MINE, HAVING ALWAYS BEEN ASHAMED OF YOUR MAGIC, GUILTY, JUST AS THEY WANTED!”

“I refuse to be defined by it, and you know it!”

The demon shoved Regan away unexpectedly, and she gasped in terror as she fell to the floor. Too shocked to get back to her feet, she remained still. “This is the end,” she thought, swept over with panic. It has never happened before. _Justice turned on her._ She couldn’t say which was worse, the fact that it actually occurred, or that he did it in front of everyone. Wilhelmine sat, paralyzed, just staring and staring at the ghostly figure. Templars moved to intercept it; the youngest of the group lunged at the abomination recklessly, running this blade through its ribs. It had no effect, the demon didn’t even seem to notice the attack. Having realised that, the templar stepped back, primal fear in his eyes, and before his comrades could finish what he started, Cole materialized out of thin air between them. He grabbed Anders’s arm and turned to face him. “You believe in the wrong thing,” he said, “you are not you anymore.”

“I WILL NOT BE SWAYED BY COMPASSION. YOU ARE WEAK AND USELESS, AND I HAVE NO NEED OF YOUR WORDS!”

“Look deeper and you will see.”

It diverted its full attention to Cole, unexpectedly, and stared at him with a menacing grimace on his face. Blue flames were enveloping lad’s hands, and it hurt, skin was peeling off his hands in layers, turning to ash as it touched the stone floor. Blisters covered his hands, but he knew he had to endure the pain to be able to save him.

“I was like you, I _was_ you. I used to think I did what was right. It nearly twisted me, perverted me from my purpose. I saw that I was wrong, and so should you.”

For a second there, Hawke thought that Vengeance looked lost.

“WHAT?!”

“Stop,” Cole continued in a soothing, soft voice, “let him go.”

It prepared to lunge at the boy, and Cole made a step back, but then the fire went out, momentarily, and Anders fell to his knees, powerless. “No!” he bellowed as he tumbled down. The guards broke from their dead stupor and approached the accused carefully, forming a circle around the mage, together with the templars, holding him on their swords’ points.

“It’s gone,” Cole said, “but it is still there.”

The crowd gasped, and boisterous chattering swallowed up the courtroom immediately. Cassandra stood up and held her hand up in the air. “Silence!” she yelled. The commander gave the crowd a cold, dead stare, then spoke out in a raised, slightly hoarse voice. “This is not some fancy orlesian play, and this hearing is not for your entertainment!”

The people in the crowd slowly grew quiet, but their curiosity was far from sated. If before they would keep silent, even if overly agitated, and pay attention, now they could not keep their mouths shut. Anders was having a seizure, he was shivering and whinging, and seeing that, the observers livened up again, with renewed interest.

Cullen began rubbing his temples vigourously in an attempt to stop an imminent headache. “Inquisitor, it was a mistake to make the proceedings public,” he said, looking in the distance, at the massive door of the keep, “I request your permission to... herd our _guests_ out.”

Wilhelmine fidgeted nervously, unable to sit straight. “Granted,” she said, quietly.

“You heard the Inquisitor,” Commander stepped forward, menacingly, “It is for your own safety. Out, all of you!”

Together with the guards, Cullen led the people outside. They weren’t pleased, and thick orlesian accents were domineering for a while, already trying to bargain some sort of compensation, but finally they were ushered out, and the hall went silent.

“Josephine is _not_ going to be happy about it,” Leliana concluded, as the doors were finally shut behind them.

“We can handle this,” Cullen brushed it aside, “and so can she, but ours is the most immediate concern. The apostate is dangerous, without any doubt,” he said with disgust, “How do you think we should proceed, Inquisitor?”

By this time, Anders was quiet. The long-faced lad checked if he was still breathing, then pointed his sword at him again.

“I… think we’ve seen and heard what we had to. But I need to ask him one last question,” Wilhelmine was trying her best to repress her nervousness, and forced herself to look at the mess he was, “you have lived to fully witness the consequences of your actions. If you knew that then, would you still do what you have done?”

At this very moment, Hawke regretted making him promise to answer truthfully. She knew well what his response would be and cringed in anticipation. She tried to think of how to give him a subtle sign, warn him… But it was already too late.

His voice sounded subdued, and there was a lot of effort in it. “Seeing that what I did has invoked inevitable change, and that the people of Thedas finally got to see the Chantry for what it is, I say I would do it. _I would_ , time and again, and I am ready to suffer the consequences for it.”

Wilme stood up. “I… need to think,” she said as she came running out of the hall. The advisors were stupefied. They looked at each other, bewildered, but each of them chose no to follow the Inquisitor. Instead, they just stood in the hall, thinking to themselves. Even Vivienne and Dorian, who couldn’t stand each other, didn’t as much as throw a cruel word at the opponent. Regan, however, didn’t know how to react. Vengeance must have frightened the Inquisitor greatly. She couldn’t see any other reason why she would leave the room, considering that it was practically unheard of for a judge to leave when the trial was still in progress. Minutes and minutes passed, and a strange thought occurred to her. If the Inquisitor was determined to rule against him, she would have said so after she heard his answer, as damning as it was. But she did not. What could that mean? She did not dare hope.

As Hawke was in a middle of a long, heated debate with herself, the Inquisitor came back, holding something that looked like crumpled parchment in her hands. Young woman stood the on the opposite side of the accused, but didn’t take her rightful place on the throne. “I apologise,” she said, finally, consulting her papers, but not actually reading from them, “but I have reached a verdict.”

Hawke froze. “May the Maker judge him whole,” she thought.

“For your crimes against the Maker, His servants, the faithful, and the citizens of Kirkwall, you are hereby excommunicated from the Chantry. The Inquisition is not the Chantry, this is true, but I doubt her officials will disagree on our ruling. From this moment forth, you will berefused any service or right of participation in all sacred ceremonies, denied entry to any of Andraste’s holy grounds, including all temples, cathedrals, and chapels in Southern Thedas.”

“Inquisitor, dear, you must be unwell,” Vivienne began, delicately, “the man clearly has no regard for Andraste or the Maker, it’s not just an unfitting punishment, it is not a punishment at all!”

“Enchanter Vivienne, I’m afraid the sentencing is not finished yet,” Wilme said, putting away her parchment and sitting down humbly. When the lady nodded for her to continue, she resumed her speech.

“It is my belief that these crimes could not be perpetrated by someone of sound mind, which is proven by an unnatural power of your... convictions. Yours are the words of one mentally unsound, which I conclude to be due to the state of demonic posession. Before the matter can be resolved, you are to remain in our custody, where attempts to banish the demon will be made. If they are successful, you will be held unaccountable for your actions. If the banishment does not succeed, you will be exiled to the Deep Roads, since in your current state you are a danger to the people. The excommunication is final, however, regardless of the outcome, for it was your conscious choice to merge with this... spirit.”

“Aren’t you just sentencing me to death, Inquisitor?” the mage asked, confused, as he stood on his knees, holding his stomach where the templar blade has pierced it; to numb the pain, he was drawing on the last drops of mana he had left. It was Justice that was struck, not him; Anders wasn’t bleeding, and there weren’t any wounds, but there was pain, _a lot of pain_ , for the body that was attacked was Anders’s. “I’ve always thought that separation of a spirit and its host can only be achieved through the death of the latter.”

“I don’t believe it to be quite true,” Leliana stepped forward. “Have you heard of Connor Guerrin?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

I’m surprised Warden-Commander didn’t tell you,” she said to Anders.

“If it has something to do with possession, I’d be surprised if he did. He always found the concept unnerving, to say the least,” he replied, gathering last remains of civility.

“During the Fifth Blight, Warden-Commander Amell, who I am sure you and all that are present here know of, sought the aid of Arl Eamon Guerrin. His son, in whom magical talents have manifested early, was protected by his mother, Isolde, who didn’t want him to be taken to the Circle. Instead, she chose to cover the truth and insisted that the boy be tutored privately. She had managed to find such a willing tutor, who would later turn out to be an apostate blood mage, the one who caused Arl Eamon to be taken with grave illness. Connor could not see his father’s suffering, not being able to heal him; thus he decided to make a deal with the demon, who promised him that his father would not die. It possessed the boy, but little did he know that it would not heal the Arl, instead leaving him barely alive. The demon did fulfill its promise, but it wasn’t what Connor had hoped for. While possessed, he brought many a woe on the village of Redcliffe, killing many innocent people and waking their dead. But the captured apostate told us that it was possible to banish the demon whithout killing the boy. What he proposed first was a blood magic ritual. It required a sacrifice, but later we discovered there was another option. With enough lyrium, it was possible to fight the demon and kill it. The Hero of Ferelden has banished it from within. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

People’s eyes were locked on Leliana. Despite the grim content of her story, they seemed captivated. Sister Nightingale made a deep breath and continued speaking.

“As a matter of fact, I met the young man not so long ago, and, to the best of my knowledge, he demonstrates no sign of possession.”

“It sounds most fascinating indeed,” Dorian was twirling his mustache with his finger, deep in thought, “and I must admit I have heard of similar rituals back home, but it seems that this lad, Connor, hasn’t spent a long time in a state of demonic possession. But this case here… it is so much more complicated! The question is, while the boy was probably saved before his mind could be irreparably damaged… Would it work on someone who has been possessed for _no less than ten years?_ On someone who has been transformed, and transformed _greatly,_ perhaps even irreversibly, by this,” he paused, “ _union._ And most importantly, even if it were to succeed, wouldn’t it shatter his mind completely?”

“These are truly intriguing questions, Master Pavus, and ones deserving answers, surely, but I doubt those could be found by mere speculation.”

Everyone turned to look at Solas, approaching the centre of the courtroom quietly, his steps careful and silent. Wilhelmine was the most surprised person in the room to see him. Previously, she invited him to attend the hearing, but he politely declined, saying that human trials made him sad. Apparently, something has changed him mind. She wondered what it was.

“I apologise for my intrusion,” the elf bowed his head slightly, “But your discussion was so heated, I couldn’t help but overhear it from my study.”

“So you think it _can_ work, Solas?” Cassandra demanded.

“I haven’t performed such rituals myself, but have seen similar experiences during my journeys into the Fade. It _is_ possible.”

Cullen scoffed. “So we waste the Inquisition’s resources to aid murderers, now?” Vivienne gave him a look of approval, but his remark was largely ignored by everyone else.

“Then the final verdict will be announced to the public after we see the results,” Wilhelmine concluded.

Anders made a tremendous attempt to get on his feet, through excruciating pain in his stomach, but Hawke stood still. She put her hand on her heart, clearing her throat before she spoke. “Thank you, Inquisitor. We won’t forget this.”

Anders smiled weakly, but genuinely. “It is no wonder they call you Andraste’s Herald.”

“Before we decide anything, however, you should know,” Solas intruded as he looked at the apostate with a gravely serious look on his face, “that it will only work on a willing host.”

“So then,” the Inquisitor caught up, “Anders, are you _willing_ to be separated from this demon?”

The mage might have looked like a mess, but his voice was solid steel.

“I am.”

And then, Regan stopped listening.

 

They met a couple hours later, down in the abandoned part of the castle.

“This… looks much better than that prison cell,” she noted, removing cobwebs from her face, “ _and even_ cleaner than your Darktown clinic.”

“Well, they placed the guards at the door, so it’s hardly different. But at least it’s better than roaming around ‘freely’ and...” Anders shuddered, “being _watched_.”

“I know you don’t like people looking at you. And I’m sorry I won’t be there for you when-”

“Don’t be,” he said, “I think I have to get even with Justice, and I have to do it alone. I wouldn’t want you to witness me fail.”

“ _You won’t_.”

“I never would have thought that _Chantry folks_ can give _me_ another chance.”

“That says something.”

He went up to Regan and wrapped her in his arms.

_Don’t, don’t don’t don’t._

_To void with it._

She clung to him so hard that little teardrops came out in the corners of her eyes.

“I want to promise you one thing. Whatever happens to me, you need to know that you won’t be alone ever again. I’ll find a way to reach you, even if I have to go through every damn path of the Fade.”

_Even in death._

He put his chin at the top of her head, and they just stood there for a while, in silence.

* * *

 

“Come to educate me on my life choices, _Commander_?” Regan’s attention was focused on packing her saddlebag, and she was so absorbed by it she didn’t even look at him when he approached.

“No,” he replied, looking around. He _was_ judgmental, but didn’t want to express it, and Regan sensed it immediately.

“Unhappy with the official ruling, then?” She went on, doing her best to keep a straight face while ignoring both Cullen and the stench of the stables.

“I don’t have to agree wholeheartedly with Inquisitor’s decisions to actually respect them, Hawke.”

“Of course you don’t, you’re in love with her,” she turned suddenly to dart her eyes at him, and while she spoke in a casual voice, her face expression was something so entirely self-satisfied it was usually described by Varric as ‘Hawke’s signature shit-eating grin’.

“ _I beg your pardon_?” The indignation in his voice made her triumph internally.

“It shows, but that’s beside the point, which is... You were always a righteous man, and proud of it. Well, knowing that, how should I address you? Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Bastion of Rational Thought, Voice of Reason, Purger of Heretics From the Ranks of the Faithful?”

“Maker’s breath, will you stop with the show?” Commander exhaled loudly, fidgeting.

“What I mean to say is you’re no better than me, and not as objective as you like to think.”

“I never believed I was better than anyone!” Cullen objected, “You’re not a bad person, Hawke. But we are different, that much is true. The difference is that I put my trust in the law, and I wish you did as well.”

“You want to know what _I_ think?” Suddenly, Regan lost all her arrogance, and started speaking with seriousness he rarely heard from her. “I think that all the law in the world could not prevent any of the events in Kirkwall. It couldn’t stop the Arishok, it didn’t stop Knight-Commander Meredith, who was using said _law_ as a disguise for her crimes. Kirkwall Guard, Templar Order, Seekers of Truth, Chantry and her Divine, her Left and Right Hands, – they all were supposed to uphold _the law,_ and yet, they didn’t do anything. It’s all good when _the law_ does its job, but it will _never_ be enough. We’re different, Cullen, because I see that, and you don’t.”

The man didn’t answer.

“So don’t be so judgmental. It’s bad for your health,” she smiled, victorious.

“Thank you for your concern, but that wasn’t why I came to speak with you,” he cleared his throat, regaining his confident posture.

“Go on, then.”

“I’ve received word the Inquisition _will_ have siege equipment at its disposal. Since all of our trebuchets were destroyed in an avalanche, along with Haven,” there was a look of deep regret on the general’s face as he explained the situation, “we now have our Ambassador to thank for that we actually have something to breach these walls with. The equipment will not arrive with _our_ forces, however, and since you and Stroud are heading to Adamant first, to monitor the situation and coordinate scouting operations, it’s been asked that you oversee the… _delivery_ and maintenance until the Inquisition’s armies arrive.”

“Understood,” Regan nodded, “we’ll send the word when we are there, and hopefully, the siege is every bit as successful as you’re expecting it to be.”

“We await your report. May the Maker guide your hand.”

“May His blessings be with you.”

Cullen watched as she hopped on her horse and rode into the distant horizon, then left for the war room.


	3. Salvation Eternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a great deal of speculation on how the ritual would go  
> (Canon-divergent, since the events of both Redcliffe Castle and Therinfal Redoubt happened)

Lady Josephine Montilyet decided she earned herself a short break.

Her delicate, manicured hand was numb from a long day of writing, writing, writing… A chubby kitchen girl refilled her teacup courteously. Josephine thanked her, and she ran awayafter leaving a massive cast-iron teakettle on the table.Lady Ambassador left the desk, slipped out of her shoes and relaxed on the sofa. The shoes were brand new, antivan leather. They gave her blisters.

Josephine sipped some tea. It was from a personal stock, her favourite: strong, but with a soft berry aftertaste. She let the aroma linger on her lips a bit longer before taking another sip. _Oh, it was good._ So good that even her secret passion for chocolates which she hid in her desk had to be contained: it would spoil the pleasure.

It was a real challenge to continue establishing the Inquisition as a peace-keeping force when it was run by so many _military-minded_ people. They would disregard any possible implications, should troubles in public relations arise. _Once._ Just once, she let them take her position as the arbiter, and it turned to be an absolute disaster. She was proud of Leliana and how she handled the situation, it helped their cause a lot. Apart from the spymaster’s performance, there was but one thing that saved their face. The nobles were mostly dissatisfied because they were denied a verdict, not because they were herded out of the courtroom like cattle. One orlesian lord even referred to this incident as ‘a quaint, but refreshing change’. Josephine still had to salvage this, and spent the majority of the day doing exactly that. She made a small note in her mind: g _et Leliana something nice to thank her_ _properly_ _. Ah, and never let Cullen take charge again._

Fereldan tempers are short.Even their diplomats were insufferable on their best days. They were stubborn, overly straightforward, sometimes even outright rude. She had to admit that even the squabbles between Antivan merchant princes paled in comparison sometimes. They at least could be _reasonable_ from time to time.

She thought of Antiva. Home. So far from where she was, on the border of Orlais and Ferelden, in the mountain castle, leagues away from civilization… Those cold winds would make her skin crack dry if she as much as stepped in the garden, even for a short stroll. If only she could feel the gentle breeze playing with her hair, just once…

Loraine, her assistant, barged in the office, noticing the Ambassador not being behind her desk. The girl adjusted the folds of her dress, slightly embarrassed, and bowed politely to apologize for her intrusion.

“Sorry to interrupt, my lady, but there’s a new guest who has just arrived and wishes for a meeting. It is Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven. He’s been very persistent in his intentions, but strangely patient.”

“ _Prince_ Sebastian?” Josephine was taken aback. “What might he be doing here, in Skyhold? I thought he was regrouping in the Free Marches after his shameful display in Kirkwall.”

“He seems to have other plans,” Loraine exhaled, “and perhaps that is why he requested to meet you in person.”

Lady Montilyet put away her fine porcelain cup.

“Me? Not the Inquisitor?”

“That’s how he expressed it, yes.”

“Tell him I’ll see him in an hour. And could you be so kind as to ask Master Tethras to come here?”

“Of course, my lady,” answered the assistant. She bowed again and closed the door, leaving the ambassadorial chambers.

Five minutes later, Josephine heard a polite knock on the door, followed by a deep voice. “It’s me, Ruffles.”

“Come in, Master Tethras,” she replied, feeling relieved.

The dwarf entered the office, his bright satin shirt wide open on his chest.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” she smiled graciously, “you may have heard that one particular visiting dignitary has blessed our halls with his presence...”

“Sebastian?” Varric’s nose wrinkled with disdain, “Yeah, I’ve seen him, actually. But mostly, I’ve been just avoiding him, to be honest.”

“You have been acquainted with him for quite some time, and I was hoping you could provide some insight into the Prince’s motivations and his personality,” Josephine tilted her head to the side, beckoning the dwarf towards the sofa.He sat next to her, as she was pouring some tea for him.

“My lady, I’m no diplomat,” Varric chuckled, spreading his hands wide, “I’m a businessman.”

“But surely you can see many benefits to a successful arrangement which could be reached if the meeting goes well,” Josephine switched to his mother tongue quickly. She was well-versed not only in orlesian and nevarran dialects, but in the language of politics and coersion as well.

“It’s not that I am unwilling to help a charming woman such as yourself; I just doubt that I can tell you something you don’t already know.”

“But your help will be appreciated in either case,” she assured him and prepared to listen.

“Right, he’s a well-mannered, pious bastard. And a boring one, at that. Indecisive, too, never knew what was good for him. Had his fun before he was given to the Chantry, set on the path to _redemption_!” Varric scoffed. The only mention of Sebastian made his skin crawl, and the prince has been terrorizing him with his letters for the past two years. “So he became self-righteous, and completely oblivious to that. If you asked me about him like, what, five or so years ago, I’d say that he was doubtful and thus could be led easily, but it seems that he’s changed, for better or worse. This annexation of Kirkwall, or, rather, a poor attempt at it, is the proof. He was supposed to stay in the Chantry, but he just couldn’t sit there knowing the Starkhaven throne could be his, so he broke his vow. A good brother, indeed. Now, I think even Starkhaven isn’t enough for him. Sebastian may say that his actions were to hunt down the maleficarum, to bring justice to Kirkwall, all this bullshit… But don’t let him fool you. To me, it was a simple land grab. He’s no better than Anders, and Anders at least was honest in his intentions.”

“That _is_ helpful, Master Tethras,” Josephine said gratefully.

Varric stood up, bowed his head, and walked towards the door. “One more thing, Josephine.”

“What is it?”

“If he proposes a chaste marriage to you, run.”

  


After Varric left, Josephine finished her brief tea-time, wrote another formal invitation and spent the remaining time preparing for the meeting. She put on the shoes again, adjusted the necklace on her dress made of finest silk, and used some perfume, applying it to her wrists and neck. The scent was faint but pleasant, without any hint of vulgarity. She looked in the mirror and adjusted her coiffure. _Perfect._

Loraine opened the door, and the prince entered the chamber. Lady Ambassador approached him; Sebastian bowed slightly, took her hand with a confident gesture, and kissed it.

“It’s an honour to make your acquaintance at last, Prince Sebastian,” Josephine curtsied.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Montilyet,” he answered, a true picture of modesty.

“I must admit, I was a little surprised to learn that you have decided to pay us a visit. The Frostback Mountains are a long way from Starkhaven.”

“I am sorry to come unannounced,” Sebastian put his hand on his heart apologetically, “But I must mention that I am absolutely astonished by Skyhold’s beauty. It is a formidable fortress also, fitting for the order-bringing force you serve.” He collected himself and smiled at Josephine. “But I didn’t come to give compliments to your castle. I have seen the error of my ways and traveled here to try and put the unpleasant business in Kirkwall behind us.”

 _There’s a lie,_ Josephine thought as she was listening to him attentively, like a diligent student.

“But when I arrived, my men informed me of one rumor…That the Inquisition harbors a dangerous maleficarum in its castle, a man whom I’ve been hunting for several years. A dangerous criminal, who has to answer for many things.”

“It’s only partly true,” the ambassador objected softly, “as I wouldn’t say that we are _harboring_ him. He is our prisoner, and treated as such.”

“So then the trial is underway? I would ask permission to participate and provide my testimony in the hearing.”

“The hearing on this matter is already adjourned, I’m sorry to inform you.” Somehow, Josephine was disappointed to learn this was his true purpose. But then, it would be quite strange that a man with expansionist tendencies would come in person to apologize for his _transgressions_ and repent, even he was on the losing side, having fled with tail tucked between his legs.

Sebastian was truly surprised, and his eyes widened a bit. “So the decision has been reached?”

“The verdict hasn’t been announced to the public yet,” she answered, “I would say that the trial is still in session, albeit, indirectly, at Inquisitor’s insistence.”

“I have never heard of such a thing! When will it be decided, then?”

“There are some details we have agreed must be undisclosed, at least for a time, since the final verdict hasn’t been reached.” She caught weak notes of aggression in his demeanor, aggression she felt he was trying to conceal, and was doing a decent job of it.

“So I cannot make a contribution to the trial?”

Josephine needed to step lightly. Perhaps the prince could be flattered into submission. “Unfortunately, you can’t. Have you arrived sooner, we would gladly provide you an opportunity not only to attend the judgment, but to provide a personal insight into the matter.”

Apparently, it wasn’t enough. The heir of Starkhaven crossed his hands and made a deep breath. “Then perchance I could be granted a personal audience with the Inquisitor?”

“We are currently preparing to march, and Inquisitor Trevelyan is overseeing some important matters,” Josephine repelled his attacks. She regretted that she had to deceive Sebastian because she couldn’t tell him the truth that Wilhelmine actually declined all invitations to attend personal audiences, preferring to stay in the company of her advisors, instead. Then again, she felt reinvigorated because her small lie was probably for the best, and impressions meant everything in her line of duty. “But I may be able to hand her a letter from you.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Sebastian raised his hand a little, “but in this case I must petition to claim this prisoner for myself.”

“He is under the Inquisition’s jurisdiction,” Josephine squinted her eyes, and a little crease appeared under her lower eyelid, “While I see your point, I doubt it will be agreed upon.”

“But-”

The man was interrupted as a messenger entered the office hurriedly. He handed a small note to Josephine, who apologized to her visitor and ran it quickly with her eyes.

“I’m afraid your claim is no longer valid,” she said to him with a sympathetic expression on her face.

 

The preparation began at midday, hours before Josephine’s meeting, and when it was time, all participants assembled in the Mage Tower of Skyhold. It was dedicated to research, but was still unfinished, and in construction. Wilme had to be present. She was accompanied by the Commander, and Cassandra was watching from the other side of the chamber, but the Inquisitor was still unnerved. The memories of Therinfal haunted her every waking hour, and a mere thought of demonic possession was terrifying. She pitied Anders. Wilhelmine caught but a glimpse of what being controlled by a demon was like, of unfortunate fate one led after becoming an abomination. She was lucky to avoid the destiny Envy had prepared for her, but the man who stood before her has been struggling with it for ten years, and almost no one knew. No one would suspect that she was ravaged by Envy, had it managed to possess her; not until it was too late. It could mimic very well. But Wilhelmine needed to be strong, and so she gathered herself.

Anders sat on a bench, leaning his back against the wall; next to him was a deep and large marble bowl, filled with lyrium essence to its brim. The air around it smelled like burned ozone. Aloof, Solas, who was a master conductor, was instructing the others on the details of the ritual. Next to him stood Dorian, Cole, and two young, yet talented mages. Vivienne refused to participate, so Grand Enchanter Fiona assigned two of her most promising apprentices, who expressed their enthusiasm. Finally, they approached him, and the elf started speaking.

“Due to the unusual nature of your case, the ritual we’re about to perform is more akin to an exorcism, while still retaining many similarities with a trivial,” his nose wrinkled at this word, “demon banishment. It is, however, hardly a true exorcism, because _you_ will be responsible for its outcome.”

The mage was listening. A small part of him still couldn’t believe such a thing was possible. Another part was petrified at the concept, suspicious, afraid that he would be lied to, made Tranquil, or worse. What could they devise with all the resources at their disposal and Chantry support?

“You will play an instrumental role in the purge, and thus you will remain partly conscious during the procedure.”

“What happens if I fail?” Anders asked, drifting off a little.

“I am uncertain,” Solas looked him right in the eyes, his confidence unwavering by this admission, “but if I had to guess, if your defeat means that Justice prevails, then he would devour you and seize control permanently, drowning you forever.”

“Then I must ask you one thing,” Anders turned his head to look at the Inquisitor, “that you cut me down should I fail. I will not be a mindless thrall to him any longer. As much as I respect your decision, Inquisitor, I would rather die than continue this co-existence, even if we get to do some good along the way.”

“But you do not know that for certain,” she said.

“I don’t, and neither do you,” he replied, calmly.

“If it is as Solas suspects, I understand. It will be done as you ask,” Wilhelmine promised.

Anders looked relieved. “Thank you,” he said.

Solas gripped his staff firmly and continued. “Now, I need you to listen to me very carefully. When a demon possesses someone, it usually approaches one in the Fade and controls him from there. In your case, however, it entered your body from the mortal realm, so now it dwells in the same area of the Fade you do. It is trapped inside your mind, and the only one who knows it best is you. I can sense that the connection you share with Justice is a strong, albeit morbid one, but it _can_ be severed. You must seek the demon and confront it, because it is only safe when it covets, when it’s hidden. Cole will be sent there as well, and he will guide you.” The lad waved at Anders awkwardly. He gave him a weak smile. “I cannot say yet if there are complications due to the neglect of your state, but we will have to do with what we have. Be warned, Anders, it _will_ manipulate you. When one enters the Fade in dreams, there are many false images, and you will undoubtedly see such, but you may as well be shown many true ones. This is why _you mustn’t linger_. Do not engage in conversation with it. Do not think on what you see, on its meaning, whether it holds any truth or not. _Do not follow the light._ Focus on your task. Find Justice.” Solas made a long pause, “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“Yes, one, in fact,” Anders answered, not moving his stare, looking at his protruding knees as if he never saw them before. He directed his question at the Inquisitor, without addressing her at all. “When I started the Kirkwall rebellion, I knew no one would offer me mercy, especially not the faithful, not then, not later. But you did. Why?”

Wilhelmine wasn’t prepared to hear that question, let alone answer it. When they first gave her the mantle of the judge, they told her that some might see mercy as the sign of weakness, but never mentioned anything related to malevolence. To her, it was a much worse sign, one of cowardice. But when she had to judge the apostate, the ritual she subjected him to never seemed like mercy to her. It was the only right thing to do.

“The Chantry teaches us that mages can fall prey to demon possession,” Wilme began carefully, “but what it doesn’t say that you don’t have to be a mage to attract the attention from the Fade, it never mentions that demons can invade an unwilling host. It’s wrong. Being reduced to a mindless drone, carrying out someone else’s will, bringing evil into the world… I would not impose such a cruel fate on anyone. Your goals were noble, but you made a mistake. These ten years were punishment enough.”

“Wisely said,” Solas noted, seeing that Anders didn’t reply.

The exorcised looked at the Inquisitor with deep gratitude and firmly said, “I am ready.”

* * *

It wasn’t how he remembered the Fade, it didn’t feel like it. Going there while dreaming was always surreal, unnatural, but now he thought he was trapped somewhere between the real world and the Fade. The first change Anders saw was more than disturbing. Instead of the dreadful Black City, and its image that followed you wherever you went, the Prophet Andraste was there, unreachable, her eyes closed in mourning. She was weeping blood. He looked away, but even when he screwed up his eyes, she was still there, a horrible image imprinted in his brain.

He walked forward in a quick pace, treading carefully. It was strange to discover that blood was flooding the surface; his feet began sinking in the poisonous soil of the Fade.

SO YOU FINALLY CAME TO YOUR SENSES, BOY?

Anders looked around cautiously. There was no one, apart from the weeping Prophet. He was hoping that if Justice tried and initiated a conversation, he could follow the voice to locate him, but his hopes got crushed in an instant. He couldn’t detect where the voice was coming from, because it sounded like it was in his head. Feeling disoriented, he pressed on.

The further he went, the weirder it became. There were many dark paths in the Fade, leading nowhere, and he was used to that. Here, all Anders could see was a long corridor with no way out, and radiant light shining in the distance. Was it how it was like to experience Tranquility? The mage was flooded with paranoid thoughts. The Rite of Tranquility was kept a mystery, much like the Grey Warden Joining. It was a dark sacrament, and Anders had no idea how it was performed. He had no guarantees that they didn’t lie to him, simply removing a danger that he represented. All Tranquil bore a pyre brand on their foreheads, but when the mages started the ritual, he didn’t see any brand. What if it ran deeper than that? What if a brand wasn’t required to cut off someone from the Fade? What if it had a different purpose?

The whirlwind of conspiracy thoughts cut abruptly as Anders noticed he was knee-deep in blood. Strangely, he could feel no signs of physical exhaustion, or increased difficulty in movement when treading through the pond of blood. In front of him appeared an army of ghostly figures, faceless Wardens, all of whom were archers. They aimed their bows at him, unmoving, as if they never knew fatigue. Among them, Anders saw Nathaniel, who acted as a leader, and was the only one of the Wardens to have a face. His arrows were aimed at Anders as well. Behind his back was a familiar figure, but not a Warden. It was Sebastian, and he was whispering in Nathaniel’s ear, like a vile serpent. Nate’s face twisted with disgust, but there wasn’t any doubt or question in his eyes. At his right side stood Rolan, his guts spilling to the floor, torn apart, his skin burnt and rotten. Anders felt an urge to vomit as the odor reached his nose.

DO YOU SEE?

_No, Nate wouldn’t-_

They fired simultaneously, and hundreds of arrows pierced his throat. It wasn’t physical pain Anders experienced, but instead his nerves went on fire, and he saw a bright flash. The Wardens fell one by one, set ablaze by the infernal blast that broke off from Anders. It swallowed them whole.

YOU KNOW IT. YOU ALWAYS DID. THEY NEVER TRUSTED YOU.

He ran, unthinking.

WE ARE ONE AND THE SAME. YOU CANNOT RUN FROM YOURSELF.

He was rushing towards the light as he didn’t have any other choice than to push forward. He ran for what seemed like hours, listening to Justice’s mad laughter following his fervently.

“Show yourself, you coward!” Anders shouted to the void, not even hoping for Justice to obey his command.

I AM HERE. YOU ARE SIMPLY UNWILLING TO SEE.

He turned around. He was followed by an army of dead wardens, forming a living wall, not letting him turn back. In their wide lines Anders saw many copies of Regan with a Tranquil brand. They were smiling, every last one of them, and their eyes were white.

_Do not linger. Do not think._

SHE NEVER TRULY CARED FOR OUR CAUSE. THIS IS A PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR FOOLISH DISTRACTION.

_I’m not listening. Not listening._

Anders made himself go on. Walking was getting gradually harder. Blood level remained the same, but he could swear he could hear Andraste’s wailing now. A tall figure in which he recognized Warden-Commander walked up to him. The man moved past him, and when the two were close, a swarm of locusts emerged from Commander’s robe, and it fell to the ground. Anders was alone again.

They promised to him that he would be guided, that there would be assistance. Yet, there was no one in the corridor except for him and a following of shimmering silhouettes behind his back. Anders felt abandoned, betrayed.

DID YOU REALLY THINK THEY WOULD KEEP THEIR WORD? THEY LIE BECAUSE THEY FEAR CHANGE. THE CHANGE WE WILL BRING INTO THIS WORLD.

He knelt, feeling the waves of blood  crush  against his body. It was warm. 

__Though all before me is shadow_ _ _,_ _y_ _et shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light-_

HE DOESN’T HEAR YOUR PRAYERS.

_ I  am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here. _

DO YOU WONDER WHY SHE WEEPS?

_The Light shall lead her safely-_

SHE WEEPS BECAUSE SHE HAS SEEN WHAT HAPPENED TO HER CHILDREN. WHAT THEY HAVE DONE. SHE WILL NOT ANSWER.

Anders stood up. He couldn’t focus. He didn’t know what to do. Each time he glanced at the legion at his heels, new faces appeared in the ranks,  both friendly and hostile . His father. Karl.  First Enchanter Irving. Sigrun. Meredith.  Elthina. Dead, empty-eyed, drooling. But the light was closer, and he had to cover his eyes because it was blinding. 

I AM THE ONLY ONE YOU CAN TRUST.

He was smothered by panic to the point he couldn’t take a step without feeling his heart pumping in his throat. Was no one truly listening to his prayers? It was a devastating thought. But there he was, overwhelmed and insipid, and no prayer brought him comfort or strength to press on.Why would they tell him not to follow the light if it was they only way out? They must have wanted him to perish here, in the Fade. To think, they almost managed to fool him. No one in their right mind would offer him help, not without a catch.

THEY TURNED THEIR BACKS ON YOU, LIKE THE CHANTRY CENTURIES AGO, LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE. THEY WOULD BRAND YOU A MONSTER, AN ABOMINATION. MORE THE FOOL THEY. YOU MUST NOT LET THEM.

Something was creeping in Anders’s mind. He could feel a presence. He heard a slightly familiar lisp.

“He’s right here, behind you. Beware.”

YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE, WORM. GET OUT!

There was a quick flash of daggers and then it dissolved in the air as quickly as it appeared. Anders turned around, avoiding the light. Behind his back, Justice stood, like a colossal statue, looking down on him. It leaned in and reached its hand to the mage.

OUR WORK IS NOT YET DONE.

What if Justice was right? What if he was always meant for this?

WE SHALL SEE THE MAGES AVENGED. CAN THE CHANTRY PROMISE YOU THAT?

Anders walked towards Justice, slowly.

COME UNTO ME.

He looked at his hands and saw blood.

“No.”

YOU DARE?!

The spirit lunged at Anders, and he closed his eyes, channeling all his energy to push it back. And then everything faded to impenetrable darkness. He could feel himself falling into the bottomless pit. The visage of weeping Andraste disappeared; his mind was empty. Then there was excruciating pain, like he was being flayed alive. Anders could not see it, but he felt his flesh tearing, felt skin coming off in strips; he was opened up as someone started scraping his entrails with a spoon. All his weight got crushed on the stone floor as he reached the bottom. Then, emptiness.

He was still alive. He could hear himself breathing. He had to open his eyes. Had to. Gathering all strength that he had, he could feel his eyelids flicker, and suddenly, there was the Light. Faces of people, staring at him, concerned.

“Be careful,” he heard Cole’s voice, “you only have six lives remaining.”

_ W hat does that mean? _

Anders felt pressure against his body. He was pinned down on the ground by two people. He was shivering frantically, his reflexes slowly came back to him and he realized he was having a seizure. It started fading away, and the tension in his muscles receded. Men weakened their grip, and Anders was finally able to move his hands. In a sudden rush of panic, he grabbed his face to find it wet. At first, he thought it was sweat, but in truth, those were tears he felt with his hands. He was attacked by strange  euphoric  exhilaration,  and blood ran to his heart so fast he immediately felt light-headed .

“It is done,” Solas said, releasing the exorcised and helping him to stand up.

“Is Justice-”

“Slain,”  Commander responded laconically as he removed an unruly curl that was in front of his eyes, whisking little drops of sweat off his forehead. He stood next to Cassandra, their swords were unsheathed and glowed with residual energy,

“How do you feel?” Dorian asked, beckoning the apprentices to come closer to the exorcied with his hand. They did as they were bid, barely containing their curiosity like a couple of playful cats.

“It’s like I just died,” Anders cleared his throat, swallowing the salty bile that was in his mouth.

“It will pass. You will get better, and it will take time, but you should pay close attention to your spiritual recovery,” the elf seated Anders on the bench, examining him at the same time. There were many signs of strain written plainly on the renegade’s face, but he did his best to hold on. “It was just as I suspected,” he continued in a lecturing voice, “the demon has established quite a foothold in your mind. It was so strong it was able to banish Cole.”

The boy heard his name and moved closer to Anders. “It was like a maze inside, shifting, switching… It made you see only one exit, when there were so many...”  
Now, he understood.

“We should inform Josephine,” Cullen said reluctantly, “the nobles… she’s been dealing with the backlash since the day of the trial.”

The Inquisitor looked at Anders.  “We’ll send the word,”  she said ,  her words prepared and strong, like a poem learned by heart, “but you should understand that no word is fast or powerful enough to change people’s mind in an instant.  The tragedy is still fresh in their memory, and many will go against the law if they feel it has wronged them. ”

Everyone in the room was looking at her, silently, waiting. If she wanted to address something, she was certainly approaching it from afar.

“When I had to decide your fate, I accepted responsibility for it the moment I delivered the verdict. I keep my word, and my word was that you are a free man, but also must atone. Talented healers are always welcome in our ranks, and right now, we have too few.” Wilme paused. “It is an excellent opportunity to set things right,” she said, so quiet, her voice almost a whisper in comparison to how she started, “There are many in our ranks who came seeking redemption.” A deep breath. “Stay with us, and we shall extend our protection to you.”

Anders hesitated. He felt he was being forced into something, butwas too tired to argue. It was difficult to think. The Inquisitor was nothing like the Warden-Commander, but how she phrased her suggestion reminded him of something he had said long ago, after Anders’s initiation at Vigil’s Keep. It may have been under different circumstances, but the words were just as earnest. If it meant making a difference in a world already shaken by change…

“Inquisitor, if I may interrupt, this discussion is most certainly for another time,” Solas looked at her somewhat accusingly, “right now, he needs to-”

Before he could finish, Anders collapsed, without a sound.

 

When he came to, he found himself in a dim room, laying on a cot. Next to him, sitting on a chair with his hands crossed on his chest, was a balding man with a thick, jet-black beard. He was snoring with his mouth open. Anders shifted on the bed, trying to remove a blanket that felt too heavy. It woke up the man; he changed his expression quickly, looking sharp and energetic, as if he wasn’t asleep, but instead standing guard over the patient.

“Sleep well?” he asked, his lips unmoving under his massive beard, “Maker, I wish I could get that much sleep.”

“What do you mean?” Anders frowned, not understanding.

“Nine days,” the man said, envious and dreamy, “you slept for nine days. They were afraid you were comatose, but I assured them you weren’t. Name’s Adan, by the way. I was stationed here to check up on you.”

“Did I hear that right? _Nine_ days?”

Anders lost his perception of time. To him, it felt like he simply lost all recollection of events that transpired after the banishment up until this point. However strange and unsettling this discovery was to him, it wasn’t surprising. Anders suspected something like that would happen, but he didn’t expect the recovery to take so long.

“Well, yes,” Adan shrugged and walked towards the exit, “But now my duty is done and I can finally stop wasting my time and start being _useful_ for once. I’ve been instructed to refer you to Sister Leliana. She’s around here somewhere.”

“Can you give me some directions?”

The alchemist rolled his eyes. “What, do I look like a wet nurse to you? I have things to do. You’ll manage.”

Anders watched the door close. His skull was throbbing violentlyas if it was squeezed by someone’s heavy fingers, delving into his mind. He was ravenous; his stomach was on the verge of devouring itself, but the mere thought of food disgusted Anders, and he would throw up if he had something besides stale acid in his belly.

The mage walked up to the window slowly and opened the thick curtains. He needed to know which time of the day it was, at least. He looked out of the window, but couldn’t see much: the sky, low and heavy, almost purple, enveloping a tall tower adorned in Andrastian symbols. A beacon in the dark.

Slowly, everything started kicking in. There were some benefits to being possessed. Justice, for one, could take some of Anders’s pain for himself, but now he was alone, and his knee joints hurt badly. Anders tumbled down on his cot, trying to do it as quietly as possible not to disturb other patients.

He was afraid that the banishment could induce memory loss, that he would forget everything that transpired since the day he made a pact with Justice. It was more blurry than before, but he still remembered everything except for some moments he was overcome. It was patchy. He _knew_ what happened then, but couldn’t find any recollection in his mind. One cannot ever remember the moment he is brought into the world, and some say it’s because the experience is so painful and ugly that it is forever erased from the memory. It was disturbing, and Anders decided not to push it further.

His life was torn in two by Justice. Now, there was another tear. Anders despised the man he used to be before he was conscripted into the Wardens, but the man he became having merged with a demon he loathed.There were days when he would be afraid of his own shadow, seeing Justice’s silhouette in it; a broad-shouldered, heavily armored giant, his intimidating precence was squeezing his throat from the inside so he couldn’t breathe. Checking a looking glass, he wouldn’t recognize himself, the eyes he’d see would not be his. Anders felt emptiness in his chest. After the separation, he couldn’t help but fear he has lost a part of himself, and he wanted to regain it desperately.

Limping, he left the infirmary to find himself in an empty courtyard. When he was led to his trial, it was teeming with people: noble and soldiers, servants, pilgrims, but now, there was almost no one. Anders approached some guards to ask for directions.

“That tower over there,” he got a reply from one of them, “you can get there from the main hall.”

There were many stairways on the way, for which he never had any particular affinity since his days in the Ferelden Circle. When he finally reached the top, his pain became so unbearable he tried to draw on some mana to numb it, but found that there was almost none. Anders found it strange that it didn’t recover, but resorted to using it anyway, and traded pain to a feeling of being completely drained, adding to a general physical exhaustion.

Leliana was feeding a raven with corn. The bird was making the strangest, screechy noises that sounded like a mimicking of human speech, and a bad one at that, but the woman seemed to enjoy it, as if what she was listening to was a beautiful love ballad.

“I’ve been told to see you,” Anders said. The suddenness of his arrival startled the raven, but not Leliana. Her pet glared at the unannounced visitor condescendingly with its small eyes that looked like dead, black beads.

“So you are finally awake? Good. Our forces, along with the Inquisitor, left for the Adamant Fortress two days ago. When they return, you will be needed.”

He nodded silently, trying not to lock his eyes with the bird, because it projected a burning gaze of hatred at him.

“Have you met Adan?” Leliana asked, stroking the bird’s feathers with motherly tenderness. It seemed to like it quite a lot, and made a strange sound of crow-like delight.

“He’s a rather cranky fellow, isn’t he?”

“Adan wishes to commit himself fully to alchemy, and alchemy alone. To aid our cause, obviously. He hasn’t recommended a replacement yet, and I don’t think he would, so I suggest you take his place in our healers’ ranks.”

She put the raven in a cage, to its greatest displeasure. Indignant, thebird shifted on the perch and turned its back on her. “But what am I saying, you are a free man now, just as the Inquisitor decreed. You don’t have to stay when you have all the choices in the world.” Her lips curled in a sly grin, as she made her way to her desk and sat behind it, crossing her legs. There were reports that required some attention.

The idea of being indentured didn’t appeal to Anders all that much. He would rather do some good on his own terms. But his time with Justice, as strange as it was, changed him, it taught him some important things, and he would be a fool to ignore it. The most crucial lesson he learned was that wherever one was, his personal desires mattered little, for there was always something more. More important. Bigger. Paramount. And still, he missed his clinic and medical practice, missed not being on the run constantly, having a place to call his own, even it was just a screened off cot.

_Gratitude. Where are your manners, Anders?_

He was handed an opportunity. Suddenly, he realized he _wanted_ to stay.

“Then it is my choice to remain and accept the offer, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Good,” answered the spymaster, nose deep in her letters, “You made a right decision.”

Anders inspected the desk and saw a stack of parchment. An optimistic thought sprung up in his head.

“Would you mind if I borrowed a sheet of paper? I would like to write a letter to an old friend.”

Instead of an answer, Leliana looked at him with a warm and welcoming smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I finished writing this I realized I mentioned many things that were sort of part of my hc so the fic would probably make more sense with events and characters that were established previously. So I'll start on that, probably.


	4. Calming the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used in-game dialogue, slightly altered in places.  
> it's a Here Lies The Abyss chapter, with some minor adjustments to the story.
> 
> You can skip the stuff that goes before the horizontal line (I can't help but feel it comes off as weak) for the cheesy fluff of reunion. (yes I just spoiled my own work)

Hawke sprinted past the Inquisitor. She had minimum armor on, and this, adding up to her natural quickness, allowed her to outrun everybody else, most importantly, a huge son-of-a-qunari who was smashing anything that came his way. Brutal and efficient, but still unnerving; besides, his pounding, alongside with a crazy dwarf mishandling explosives made it difficult to stand her ground. Hawke shouted to them to hold position before advancing further.

They were pursuing Warden-Commander Clarel. Regan didn’t like the woman. Apart from many damning deeds such as blood magic and demon summoning she wasn’t surprised to see her authorize, Clarel had the most annoying voice that Regan ever heard. _And_ an atrocious orlesian accent. It was difficult to take her seriously because she spoke like an old indignant nun. There were only two wardens Hawke trusted, one trailing somewhere behind, and another whowas marked by taint in his blood but no longer part of the order; her brother, Carver, she could never see as a warden.Others she respected, but never trusted. Their very purpose was not self-serving, but like many reactionaries that banded together over time to fight for a common, noble cause, their leadership became ridden with corruption. It was the only sort of corruption she could see as having a barely justifiable explanation.

For an old woman, Clarel was pretty fast. Maybe it was blood magic. Hawke could easily spot her shaved head, until it got drowned in the sea of wardens who completely lost their grasp of what was going on. She elbowed her way through the crowd, swearing inwardly, only to discover that Clarel was nowhere to be seen. But such a misstep didn’t stop Regan, and she kept on running.

The others ran through the cleared path. Stroud yelled at the wardens, directing them to take their arms against the dragon which was circling around the fortress, spitting molten red lyrium, turning warriors to ash, disturbing the ancient crumbling stone. He noticed some recruits, brandishing their weapons recklessly, and ushered them to the fortress interior.

When Wilhelmine caught up with Hawke on the bridge, the picture that unfurled before her eyes was not a pleasant one. The Champion was busy watching Clarel assault a tevinter magister who was cowering on the ground, clutching his his limbs. Her shouts and accusations were indistinct from far away, drowned out by screaming and sounds of explosions and treacherous humming of red lyrium. Wilme couldn’t care less for Erimond, that evil snake, but she had to remain cautious, because danger was everywhere, in the air, absorbed in the fibers of her bloodied surcoat. She had an arrow in her hand. The show didn’t last long, as the Archdemon appeared, gliding low, and snatched the Commander of the Grey in its maw, trying to chop the woman in half with its sharp teeth. Wilhelmine shot at the dragon, an arrow, two, three, but it brushed it all off; its tooth and scale were of pure evil. Erimond crawled, and his pet forcefully threw his prey next to him, and Clarel was nothing more than a red and grey stain of tainted spew. Stroud and Hawke lunged forward when they saw her lift her hand that looked more like a crooked twig than a human limb, but, pounding on the ground, the Archdemon landed on the bridge between them, covering the magister’s escape. Warden-Commander was struggling under the beast that was preparing to pounce at its foes. Blood streamed over her eyes, but the head trauma she had suffered was so severe it would be a miracle if the woman could still draw breath, let alone retain her eyesight. But she was a still a warden, and could sense the blight. “In death, sacrifice,” Clarel rasped and channeled a bolt of pure shock energy at it. It was weak and couldn’t do any substantial harm to the creature, but just enough to send it staggering, searching for the unknown assailant, the one it already discarded. The dragon took off, but couldn’t keep balance and with all its weight, went into a dive and destroyed the bridge.

They say that Abyssal Rift goes straight into the Deep Roads, and nothing can survive a plunge. Wilhelmine was the first to fall. The last thing that flashed before the Inquisitor’s eyes was the dragon flying off. She couldn’t see if others escaped or lost their ground, sharing her fate. It was unfair. Being the Inquisitor meant facing mortal dangers all the time — Venatori death magic, being consumed by red lyrium or torn apart by a dragon — but to die because of the fall was too easy a defeat. She was clutching a bow to her chest, fingers interlocked and dead cold. The mark was throbbing. If the air wasn’t pushing forcefully, she would cry. Vexation. She wasn’t prepared to die, too scared, and way too young; butit seemed that the Maker had different plans for her. Has she done all she could do? Can one be ready for death? she asked herself.

Wilme started hearing her thoughts from outside of her mind. It was a soft hum — and weirder, it was in verse, accompanied by echoing girlish laughter.

_I often wondered what those keys do  
If they can close, they will open, too_

It was vile by design. Unnatural. Ugly. But it was worth trying.

Open, she thought, open, open, damn you!

Wilme felt the aching green and thought of water. The giggling ceased, and her palm no longer hurt; instead, a sudden relaxation turned her bones to cotton wool.Waves of the savage ocean washed over her like she was in the womb of a mother she never knew.A simple question was spinning in her head. _Did I just kill myself?_

Weapons scattered on the ground, a painstakingly familiar scenery of stone spikes, impaled bodies. Bodies of strangers. Through the tear in the sky fell all those who were on the bridge, and none were seriously injured. There was Stroud, helping Hawke on her feet, Varric, complaining next to them, and steadfast Cassandra. Cole lay whimpering, curled into a ball; Solas fussed over him. “Are you hurt?” he asked carefully.

“I can’t be in here,” the boy cried, “not like this, not like me!”

“Kid...” the dwarf began, soothingly.

“Are we dead?” Regan gazed around wildly, like a savage, downtrodden animal trapped in a cage.

“No,” answered Solas, still attending to Cole, “This is the Fade. The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came through, and… survived.” He seemed pleased, albeit surprised. “I never thought I’d find myself here physically. Look,” he pointed forward, “The Black City. Almost close enough to touch.”

“The Chantry owes me an apology, then,” Hawke retaliated in a good-humored manner, but still visibly distraught and uneasy, “because this looks _nothing_ like the Maker’s bosom.”

Wilme’s eyes were roving rabidly in fear, and she suppressed a scream ravaging in her chest. This cannot be, she thought, thousand years ago such an action made the Maker turn away from His children, witnessing their arrogance, and now she, whom people look up to, whom they call Andraste’s Herald, repeated their sin. She regretted having opened the rift, for a brief moment. She would rather have died, but not do the same thing Corypheus intended. Wilme saw Cole getting off the ground, twitching, and repeating one thing over and over to himself, “Can’t relax, can’t release...”. She picked up her bow and drifted off. What was more selfish: to unknowingly follow in the footsteps of sinners, or subject the others to an inevitable death, and let the world be devoured, fighting a losing battle?

“Inquisitor?” Stroud called, as she turned to face them, jumpy.

“Wait, I-I… need to think.”

“No, we don’t need to think,” Regan interjected, no less nervous than Wilhelmine, “we need to move.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong...” Cole chanted in pained monotone, pacing back and forth, oblivious to the presence of others, sometimes bumping into Varric or stumbling upon Solas, who tried to calm down the spirit boy.

“We are going to make this right,” the mage proclaimed, reassuringly. It wasn’t like he simply threw in a meaningless phrase, it was a promise which he intended on keeping.

“Let’s go, Inquisitor,” Hawke motioned her forward gently, trying not to come off as harsh, “you can think along the way, and it will help us a lot. You can be our pathfinder. The stories say you walked out of the Fade in Haven. Was it like this?”

“I wish I could answer that,” Wilme replied in melancholy, “But there isn’t much I remember about that day, unfortunately.”

“You may remember a large rift in the main hall,” Solas noted, but was interrupted hurriedly by the warden.

“The one Erimond was using?”

“Yes, where he and Clarel were conducting the ritual of summoning. Although I cannot say much about that particular rift since we had do pursue Clarel and I did not have time to observe it properly, with Warden-Commander dead and Erimond running, I doubt it is closed now. With that in mind, I believe it could be our way out of the Fade.”

“I doubt anyone here could claim a better knowledge of the Fade than yours, Solas,” Wilme said, “and besides, I believe that seems like a plausible explanation.”

“If you could open a rift in the real world,” Cassandra’s eyebrows furrowed, “couldn’t you just do the same here to go back?”

“I’m afraid that would be dangerous,” Solas objected, “we cannot say where we will wind up if the Inquisitor does that. Most likely, it will open in the Abyssal Rift, and there is no saying whether she’ll be able to save us again.”

“Understood,” the Seeker nodded duly.

“Then let us be underway,” Stroud concluded, his small eyes glinting with sickly shade of green.

Solas took the lead, and others followed him, walking towards the distant rift that resembled the Breach: as large and as ominous. Each step was difficult for Cole, like he was just learning to walk, like a small child. He even seemed to be afraid of his own shadow. Varric had his back, and when the lad got especially fearful, he would tap him on it, and a small part of sense of belonging returned to Cole. He would bombard the dwarf with many thanks and then get tense and distracted again, for the cycle to repeat again. So far, he was doing well for a spirit unwillingly dragged into his home realm, although it was very hard for him.

No one was in the mood for conversation, as strange as the whole situation was. All desire for desire among the party was dampened by their having to tread upon the moist and unsteady soil of the Fade. Wilme threw a quick glance at something that passes as a horizon, and spotted a bright silhouette clothed in shining orange light. Despite the long distance, Wilme could see it wore a hat of a Chantry sister. It looked familiar. Harmless, as much as anything can seem harmless in the surreal realm of the Fade.

“Do you see that?” she asked the others.

“Good to know I’m not the only one,” Regan replied grimly. “What _is_ that thing? It doesn’t look like any demon I have seen.”

“A spirit, perhaps?” Solas threw in, oblivious to his own astonishment. In his element, he moved confidently and seemed to enjoy the experience. For others, even Cole, it was weird seeing the elf feel so comfortable in a place that was mortally dangerous and nothing like the real world, disobeying all known laws, offering one of its own instead: do not believe anything you see.

They went and went, but couldn’t get any closer to the figure, not even an inch. Their focus on the mission was interrupted by a low and crispy voice that permeated into their very souls like salve made of brine.

“Ah, we have a visitor.” It laughed. “Some foolish little girl whose fear I gently lifted from her shoulders.”

It spoke to them at a basic, primal level, and even despite the fact that its last remark was directed at the Inquisitor, everyone felt the words creeping up their skin like earthworms. The voice was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and couldn’t be tracked to its source. Cassandra looked at Wilme who was visibly distraught, and the Seeker’s eyes reflected a single thought: Do not stop. Wilme felt uneasy when everyone turned to face her. Cole didn’t have to look, but his precence was felt just as vividly. Regan softened her gaze and examined the young woman carefully. Unprepared, uncertain, frightened. Hurled into disarray. Poor girl, she thought, she must be younger than Bethany would be. Hawke bit her lip. Here, every thought, no matter how small or insignificant was blown out of proportion, and one of her little sister hurt a little bit too much.

“Don’t listen to it,” Regan told Wilme firmly, “whatever it is, it just tries to show off its strength.”

“It must be some sort of a demon, living in this realm of the Fade,” muttered the elven man, deep in thought, “perhaps it is the one we saw in the main hall, the one Clarel wanted to bind?”

“What matters is that she did not succeed,” Cassandra said angrily, “and I hope Erimond crawls in some dank hole and dies there.”

The dawning conversation went out like a weak fire when the voice came back, stronger and louder. “You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten. You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is _me_.”

Wrong, she said to herself, I _know_ it makes me weaker, but it gives way to caution, and caution is never redundant.

“But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

Flocks of wraiths and ghostly shades were passing nearby, watching, and Wilme could feel their growing interest as tingling sensation on her sickly skin; the fingers of her left hand twitched as the mark slightly enlarged.

They pressed on. When the silhouette was finally close, Wilme understood why it felt familiar. Memories started flooding her head mercilessly, and the Inquisitor realised that figure was the woman she saw at Haven, the woman who had pulled her from the pit of thousands of eyes. The one that the faithful believed to have been Andraste. As the party approached her carefully, close enough to touch, and on closer inspection, it truly looked like a Chantry sister, and not the Maker’s Prophet. Suddenly, the light dissipated and it took the form of Divine Justinia V.

Stroud’s thick eyebrows went up. “By the Maker, could that be...?”

“I greet you, Warden,” she responded, looking at Stroud, bowing her head, heavy with a hat, then turned to Regan, “and you, Champion.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Divine Justinia?” she uttered weakly, “Most Holy?” None of those present have ever seen her so shaken and lost. Was it a demon’s minion that posed before them? Was it a product of her exhausted mind? Was it Justinia’s soul? What would a dead Divine say to her Right Hand that had failed her?

“Cassandra,” soothed the Divine.

For Wilme, it was even more confusing. She was sure she never met the Divine in person, and when was still but a silhouette, she seemed more familiar; now, the Inquisitor wasn’t sure. If someone could give a definite answer, it would be Seeker Cassandra, her Right Hand.

“Cassandra,” Wilhelmine approached her lightly, “is that really her?”

“I… don’t know,” she was perhaps more baffled than anybody in the party, a rare and worrying sight. “It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but… We know the spirits lie,” Cassandra looked at Wilme steadily, surprised at herself, “be wary, Inquisitor.”

Stroud always took everything with a grain of salt. “I fear the Divine is indeed dead,” he said, “it is likely we face a spirit… or a demon.” Solas kept silent at the warden’s objection, seeming to agree with him, but not expressing it directly.

“You think my survival impossible,” said the figure in the kindest voice that seemed to make the gilded embroidery on her robe shine even brighter, “yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way will require time we do not have.”

“It would be really helpful if you could just tell us what you are,” Regan suggested, “or is it simply a spirit thing? Ambiguity, vagueness?” The elf who was watching humans trying to figure out what was happening, chuckled softly at Hawke’s commotion.

“I am here to help you,” the Divine cut if off gently, and Hawke sighed, staring at her boots. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor, do you?” The aspect of Justinia, her face warm and deeply wrinkled like a baked apple, turned to the red-headed young woman again. Before she could react, Cassandra took the lead.

“Divine Justinia perished at the Temple before the Inquisition was even declared,” she sounded disappointed and even crushed, “We could not agree on who should lead it, and back then, you were not even a part of the picture. She would have no way of knowing you joined us and were made Inquisitor.”

“I know because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus,” she figure answered, “it is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.” What she spoke of made sense to most of the party, and they paid attention to the entity. “The false Calling that terrified Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.”

Stroud formed a fist with his hand. “I would gladly avenge the insult this Nightmare dealt my brethren.”

“You will have your chance, brave warden,” she reassured him, “this place of darkness is its lair.”

“You said earlier that demons serve Corypheus,” Wilme began warily, “but why? How does he command them? How are there so many?”

“I know not how he commands his army of demons. His power may come from the blight itself.”

“Wonderful,” Regan and Varric said almost in unison. Surprisingly, Hawke found this particular orlesian accent to be quite pleasant. Going soft there, she said to herself.

“But the Nightmare serves willingly,” Divine paid no heed to their reaction, “for Corypheus has brought much terror to this world. He was one of the magisters who unleashed the First Blight upon the world, was he not?” A pained expression appeared on her kind face. “Every child’s cry as the Archdemon circles, every dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads… The Nightmare has fed well.”

“Will you help us?” Solas asked, breaking his long-held silence.

She was determined, again, and moved slightly closer to Wilhelmine. “That is why I found you. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it.” Divine put her glowing hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, and she felt her soothing warmth washing over her, bringing calm to her nerves like a poultice. “Think of the Light, Inquisitor, and try to remember. I will guide you.”

Regan and Cassandra were on guard, but Solas motioned Wilme to continue. She closed her eyes; waves of heat washed over her again, and she saw a warm and bright light. Quick still images, echoing voices. It flashed not only in Wilme’s mind, but in everyone else’s. _Why are you doing this, you, of all people?_ Warden mages restraining the Divine. A blighted magister with red lyrium growing out of his head. _Bring forth the sacrifice._ An orb in his monstrous hand, then rolling on the ground. _Run while you can, warn them!_ The same orb, heavy in her hand. Pain. A lot of pain. Falling. Getting up. Eyes glowing in the dark. Thousands of them. Running. A glowing woman. Her strong hand. A pulling force. A woman devoured-

“It was you,” Wilme said in sorrow, “they thought it was Andraste who delivered me from the Fade, but it was the Divine behind me… And then you- she died...”

Her response was concise. “Yes,” was the only word she said.

“And my mark didn’t come from Andraste? It was what, his magic? So what he claimed was true?” she demanded in desperation. Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe it was Maker’s guidance, His providence, but that hope got crushed pretty badly. The Divine simply nodded.

“But why were the wardens holding you? What was Corypheus trying to do?” she asked again.

“He intended to rip open the Veil,” the figure explained patiently, “use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for Old Gods, but to himself. When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead. You may not have believed yourself to be chosen, but if you believe in the Maker, is it so hard to accept that He watched over you, helped you survive?” she tilted her head in sympathy as she saw Wilme screw her eyes. “You remember now, and may you find certainty in that. I shall prepare the way.”

“But what _are_ you?” Cassandra asked, perplexed, “Are you nothing more than a simple spirit?”

“I am sorry if I disappoint you.”

“Are you... her?” Wilme said, suddenly, a question mark barely there, “Did you linger here to help us, instead of passing on?”

Light was emanating from the Divine, and in an instant, she became a bright beacon resembling a woman’s shape, just like it looked to Wilme when she emerged in Haven. She was floating, ascending slowly, lighting the way for all.

“If that is the story you wish to tell,” she said, floating away, “It is not a bad one.” Soon, the Divine’s shape was only a bright dot in the distance.

“She wants to help,” said Cole, empowered by her purpose, “we should follow.”

Regan’s lips were curled, but it wasn’t a smile. Varric knew it was a bad sign, but Stroud did not.

“Is something troubling you, Hawke?” he asked.

“Aren’t you troubled by what the Inquisitor saw? What we all saw? The wardens holding the Divine, like it was before my eyes,” Regan said, irritated, “their actions led to her death.”

“I assumed he had taken their minds, as you have seen him do before,” the man retaliated, “Come. We can argue after we escape this dark place.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Soon, to their surprise, they reached the water edge. For leagues around, there was nothing except calm water.On the shore there was a longboat and a couple of oars. The Fade and its waters were treacherous, but in the absence of other choices save for waiting until death it was ultimately decided to board the boat and follow the spirit of the Divine. Solas cast protective wards, and others, taking deep breaths, got in.

They took turns rowing. Hawke and Stroud were first, and through physical exertion, shared a long and heated conversation. A few accusations were thrown, both meaningless and fair. They didn’t manage to work out their differences, and finally, agreed to disagree or at least postpone the discussion. Although Cole liked water and thoughts of it usually calmed him, around the waters of the Fade he did not feel well, and sat in the boat, laying his upper body on his knees and hugging them. Others had to switch their places to handle oars, and the voyage was a long one. When Regan passed her oar, she took her place next to Varric, facing the Inquisitor. She sat quietly for some time, recovering and trying to relax her stiff muscles, and then caught Wilme’s look. “What happened to Anders?” she asked straightforwardly.

Wilme eyed Varric in surprise. “You were not told?”

Regan scowled. “I’m afraid we had plenty things to take care of. Right now, however, we can set aside some time for idle conversations,” she stopped herself before delving further. “There’s no sayingwhat will happen, or whether we’ll come out of this alive-”

“Oh, stop with the bullshit,” the dwarf grumbled, wounded hearing his friend suddenly change her demeanor into something very dark, “that is so unlike you! What’s with all that talk?”

“You think it’s too much to want to know of his fate? Whether I should grieve or rejoice?” she snapped, then sighed, realizing it wasn’t what he implied. “I just _need_ to know, have some clarity for once… Can you do this for me, Inquisitor?” She almost pleaded.

There was such hope in Hawke’s eyes it pained Wilme that she could not give her a definite answer, only more fuel for her unquenchable hope. She could only pray that the news do not put out the fire of hopeful determination blazing in that woman.

“He is no longer possessed, and thus a free man, absolved,” Regan’s body went all limp, and she quickly composed herself to hear more. “but he’s been unconscious for a week, up until the point when we marched.”

“Worry not, Champion,” Solas, panting from behind his oar, reassured Hawke, “he sleeps, but will awaken in time. It was straining, and I would be surprised were it not, but he had proved to be a strong man, one that can pull this through.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, alarmed.

“He’ll make it,” Varric promised, “he’s been through worse shit; he’s a warden and wardens are resilient, for better or worse. You come back, he sweeps you off your feet and then you two ride into the sunset to do whatever you like and live happily ever after.”

“I doubt the ‘happily ever after’ part, but sure I’ll believe this story,” Regan looked at him warmly.

Varric bowed, putting his hand on his chest. “This, my friend, is what I’m here for.”

“I imagine I must appear ungrateful to you,” Hawke said to Wilme, “but in truth, it’s just the opposite. I never had an opportunity to thank you proper, and I regret it.”

“You shouldn’t. I understand.” replied the Inquisitor.

“You are very brave, and I hope you understand that.” She meant it.

“Friends!” Stroud enthused, “I think I see dry land!”

 

Guided by the Divine, they fought through the waves of demons, disgusting creatures and filthy maggots, discouraged by the Nightmare ridiculing and making them face their fears. Challenged, they emerged victorious from every trial, until they saw it in its true monstrous form. A great floating creature of many limbs, eyeless, insects crawling all over, a many-eyed beast of colossal size stood guard behind his master, blocking the rift.

“Quick,” the voice of the Divine rang out, “It has found us.” Without hindrance of hesitation, she crossed the distance through the air, and stated dissipating, her radiance blinding, stunning for the beast. Before she disappeared completely, vanishing in the air, inflicting great injures on the many-eyed spider, her voice resonated deeply, imprinting her painful words in their minds: “If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I’m sorry, I failed you, too.’”

The Nightmare was enraged by her assault and unleashed its endless army of demonic spiders, all of which scattered and ran to darkest corners of the Fade when Stroud chopped the demon’s head clean off with a confident and powerful swing of his sword. “Run!” he shouted to others, and they rushed through the rift. Regan and Stroud were separated from the group by the revivified beast, advancing at them and blocking the exit. Hawke saw Wilme still there, standing next to the rift. “What are you waiting for?” she yelled, “go! Your people need you!” She couldn’t say if the Inquisitor disregarded what she had said or simply couldn’t hear her voice, because instead of running Wilme quickly drew her bow and hit one of the creature’s eyes. It screeched and started turning lubberly; stomped its legs, shaking the already unstable ground, and the unfortunate redheaded markswoman tripped, falling into the rift. All its eyes, again, turned to the two people with their weapons drawn.

“Run, girl,” Jean-Marc said, nudging her with his elbow, “I’ll distract it.”

“What?” she scowled, “What good will that do? The one who should run is you, _old boy._ What use am I to them?”

The warden got angry at her foolish defiance. “Have you seen what you are to the people? What a powerful symbol you are? Do you know what you could accomplish with that alone? I’ll tell you what, you can do far more than I ever could!”

“You want me to pick up the mess the wardens left?!” she stepped from one foot to another furiously, “No, you go and do it! You are the only one who can! But this shit is my bloody responsibility! Damn it-”

The spider was so close now they could touch it. Regan knew exactly what to say to Stroud.

“’Let the blade pass through the flesh... let mine be the last sacrifice.’”

Hawke cited the canticle of Andraste, and it stunned Stroud, which was exactly the effect she was hoping for. Through all the years Jean-Marc has known the woman, she never struck him as pious, but there it was, the Chant of Light. She used his confusion effectively and sprinted off with her blade.

_I will end you._

She dodged its poisoned claws, but a hairy leg of the beast was near her. Live well without me, Anders, she thought, I am so, so sorry. Regan remembered that before she rode from Skyhold, she was given a promise. You will never be alone again, he said.

_I won’t._

She was ready to take the blow.

Then, her body was shoved powerfully to the side and she found herself on the ground. In her place stood her friend Stroud, flailing at the beast’s many limbs.

“Remember out agreement!” he rasped a second before his body got trampled.

“No!” Hawke bellowed in terror and denial, rushing to him.  
Jean-Marc growled, gurgling, blood streaming through his mouth, “Go, you fool! You owe me that!”  
Through the rift, Wilme came back armed, bringing others with her, but it was too late; despite Hawke’s efforts to drag Stroud from under the beast and to the rift, he had already choked with blood. Regan ran and jumped through the rift, letting the green devour her.

 

The Wardens did not take the news well. With their Warden-Commander gone, and most of the senior officers possessed or perished, they had no leaders, no guidance. They were hoping to look up to Stroud, whose crimes as declared by Clarel were forgiven the moment the order realized what a grave mistake they had committed. He spent all his life with the Orlesian Wardens, and now it has ended.

Though there were many who did not trust them and wanted them gone, the Inquisitor has decided to recruit them to fight against the ancient magister. Regan didn’t know whether she agreed with her decision; there was so much corruption, and if the murder of the Divine was committed by wardens directly, Stroud’s death was caused by them as well. They better fix their shit, she thought.

The Inquisition was preparing to march home. Regan couldn’t afford to be slow, as had to move fast if she wanted to pick up her things from Skyhold, see how Anders was doing, and then go to Anderfels in Stroud’s stead, as per their agreement. She checked up on Cullen, who was finally in his element on the battlefield, then bid the Inquisitor and her people farewell.

“You coming?” she asked Varric who stood next to her, holding the reins of his mount. He nodded silently and followed his friend.

Hawke mounted her steed, sent it galloping into dark, and, not uttering a single word, mourned her way throughout.

* * *

 

When she crossed the bridge and went through Skyhold gates, she couldn’t believe her own eyes. Squatting next to a wounded soldier, was Anders, alive and well. Like what they were saying about him, a tall, blond headache, he seemed to be giving instructions to the patient in a reassuring voice. That was so much better than Hawke could ever hope for. She couldn’t decide how to feel about what she saw: relieved or jolly, but jolly was what she _wanted_ to be. There was a pang of guilt, because she her grief was still fresh. Regan watched him for a while, and when he started walking towards the steps, she decided not to waste any more time.

“They gave you a _job_?” Hawke simply appeared beside him, like a creature of the fade; no greetings, no introductions. Anders played along.

“It’s fine. I like it,” he answered candidly.

A look of deep satisfaction spread across her face, glowing like the morning sun breaking through clear glass. “And you agreed to it?”

“I am full of surprises.” Regan could bet all the gold in the world that he _winked_. On the second thought, it occurred to her that maybe it was just a twitch. But she wouldn’t back down; she was all about betting against the odds, even if it meant losing miserably.

“I missed that side of you,” she blurted out, bluntly.

“So did I,” Anders replied, feeling a strange craving for detachment. It gnawed at him, pulled his strings ever since he regained his consciousness. Day and night, he would ponder, then be devoured by a strange feeling of doubt. He never doubted Justice, and Justice used to be a part of him. But he was such no more. In his heart, Anders knew that he changed, that he was a different person, but couldn’t say if he was perceived by others in the same way. He had no one to ask, but needed to hear the truth so desperately.

They were going up the stairs, Hawke keeping her pace slow seeing that Anders was limping; and when they reached the stone arch under the main entrance to the keep, the mage stopped.

“Do I seem different to you?” he asked, throwing a quick glance at her, and his heart beat faster, pulsing with anxiety.

“No, actually, you don’t. Want to talk about it?” Regan asked softly.

He was the Anders Hawke thought she had lost long ago. Five minutes of watching him working, hearing him talk was enough to see that it was _him_ , undiluted, pure. The raw essence of a person, something he was at his core. A desperate wish for change embodied, that was what Anders was.

He wanted to be honest. “You didn’t know me before Justice. I doubt you’d like that man.”

“I _know_ that man. It’s you.” Regan took a small step forward to take a closer look at him. A little bit healthier, but more tired. Lots of good work. Trimmed his beard. Brushed hair. Almost a week ago. Probably has been forgetting his meals again. Anders grew restless, and seeing that, she continued. “You’ve always been here. I saw that. Saw you.”

The healer gestured Hawke forward, taking this opportunity to touch her as if unintentionally. His skin tingled pleasantly in places where his hand met hers, sending strange impulses down his fingertips.

“How are you feeling?” She had so much on her mind, so much she wanted to ask, but this was the only thing she could squeeze out of herself. _Great job, Revered Mother. You can go back to your fucking cloister._

Anders’s voice went hoarse all of a sudden. He wanted to forget it all like it never happened, to focus on recovering and never going back. _“It was bad,_ if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t want to talk about it. They say I’ll get better.”

“What do you want to talk about, then? _”_

“You. Are you staying?” he asked with hope in his voice which he didn’t dare make any attempt at hiding.

“I’m afraid not,” Hawke’s blue eyes glinted with sorrow, “I’m off to Weisshaupt”, she paused and lowered her head, trying to sound matter-of-factly. “Stroud... died. We had an agreement that if something happens to him, I’d take my report there. I owe him. More than once, and more than my life. So I’ll take a ship in Jader and go to Anderfels.”

A long wrinkle appeared on the healer’s forehead, and the corners of his eyebrows lowered. “He was a good man. I’m sure he’s at the Maker’s side,” he sighed, “I’ll miss his mustache.” Anders wanted to grieve, and it would be only right to do so. But how could he drown himself in grief when the woman he missed to death was standing so close? He decided to self-flagellate over it later, and give in to a euphoric rush stirring in his chest _now_.

The right corner of Regan’s mouth twitched upwards. “He better be.” Right now, she could do nothing for Stroud. In Weisshaupt, though, the Champion knew she’d see him avenged.

“Where are the others?” Anders asked her.

“Varric came with me, he’s around here somewhere. The bulk of the Inquisition’s forces travels on foot, their leaders on mounts, and the wounded are carried. They stay together.”

“But you two went ahead?”

“You know how much Varric loves complaining and hates being outdoors, just as much as I do traveling. The Inquisition gave him quite a fast horse… It was difficult to keep up with him, and here I thought I spent good coin on the finest stallion Kirkwall could offer,” she said in disappointment, “feisty, too. But you should not worry about their forces, you’ll be busy in a couple of days when they arrive. I suggest you catch your breath while you can.”

They reached the infirmary building and looked at each other, unsure what to do or what to say. Like inexperienced, naive village youth they stumbled outside, tiptoeing around. Anders laughed at himself. It’s been far too long since he could allow himself to relax around people, around Hawke. Now that’s what he could finally be, himself.

“I’d offer to go with you, you know, if I weren’t serving,” Anders said, “I’m very tempted to run away, though.”

“Do they put rat poison in your food?” He couldn’t say if she was joking or was genuinely surprised. “You _hate_ the wardens. You hate the taint and all it touches. Why would want to go to Weisshaupt of all places?”

“I think you’re pretty cute, remember? Might as well stick around. It could be dangerous, going there all alone. Besides, who else would keep you from picking your scabs all the time?”

“Anderfels is a bloody wasteland. There’s no one there. If I die, I die of boredom. Or I’ll bleed to death because of all the scabs I’ll pick.”

Anders chuckled. He enjoyed seeing her so laid-back, even though it was a sudden change of pace. “The Inquisition people are reactionaries. It won’t last forever,” he noticed himself side-tracking, “and when the deed is done and my services are no longer required, I shall follow, and this I promise to you. They won’t be able to hold me her, not if I can help it. But now I really want to stay. I can do good. I’m treated well, like all mages here. And when I see templars being scolded like little boys… By their commander, no less; it’s just too pure,” he laughed, “and good for my soul. If it keeps being this amusing, I’m sure I’ll make a full recovery.”

“I think it’s you who has to be careful here,” Regan put her palm on his chest.

Anders had many things to be troubled about, but decided to forget about them. Finally in full control of himself, he could afford it. He felt things differently; it was overwhelmingly euphoric, as if each little thing he experienced was completely knew. Anders enjoyed it, enjoyed being in love all over again, like an apprentice.

“Skyhold is a bloody mountain castle,” he reciprocated, smiling shyly, then edged a little towards Hawke, lowering his head to whisper in her ear. “Come see me later in the alcove in the garden. I’d hate to see you leave without me kissing you goodbye.”

His breath tickled her, and she liked how his thick stubble felt against her cheek. “Coming off cheesy there, Anders,” she almost hummed the words like a song.

He faked being mortally wounded, and made a step back, dramatically irritated. “When have I _not_ been cheesy?”

Regan grinned like an unwashed savage. “Fair point.”

“I’m not taking this for an answer, Hawke.” He darted his eyes at her, completely shameless. She leaned in dangerously close to his collarbone, inches away from touching, and pulled the air around it in her lungs _._ Anders wished he could wring his own neck.

“You smell nice. What’s that, some sort of herb?”

“You’re going to regret this,” he almost groaned.

“Am I, now?” the woman was clearly enjoying herself, and her eyes were playful.

“A madwoman, that’s what you are.”

“And you love me for it.”

Anders scoffed and nudged her lightly. “You minx,calling _me_ the cheesy one?”

Her sonorous, throaty laughter spilled onto his skin like a wave of healing energy, warm to the heart. “I’ll ride in the morning, but I need to gather some of the things I’ve left here. _You_ come see _me_. There are eyes in the garden.”

“Maker’s breath, woman, I don’t care.”

Anders pulled Regan in, pressed her body tightly against his, and kissed her like they were going to die the moment their lips parted.


	5. A Finishing Touch

It took Cassandra two weeks to read the tome Lord Seeker Lucius had passed to her and two more to swallow it. When she opened it and went through the first pages, withered and yellow from age, she believed that the book has been kept secret due to the danger knowledge within could bring. But as she progressed further, the chapters made her hair stand up as she realized the true reason why it was passed strictly from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker was the book’s outrageous contents. The fact that Cassandra herself was no longer a part of the order did not make it any easier for her. She would forever be defined by her abilities as a seeker, and knowing where they actually came from has shaken her and her faith. Faith was what they believed to be the source of their skills, and all that being reduced to a mere ritual, however complicated, was mind-crushing.

She wondered if the power of this revelation was so great it made Lord Seeker Lucius go mad, betraying everything he had once revered and represented, surrendering the order to a heretical cult. She executed the man herself, but the damage he had caused was near irreparable, and as much as she was hoping his death to bring her some semblance of comfort, it did not; neither did it avenge her fallen brethren, tortured and forcibly fed red lyrium until they came to an ugly end.

And now everything fell to her. With other seekers scattered to the winds, Cassandra was alone, face-to-face with the cursed tome of secrets. The truth they were sworn to seek has been in their hands all that time, and it was hideous. She wanted desperately for it to only concern their order, which it, unfortunately, did not. The Rite of Tranquility was a Seeker invention, as was its deployment and subsequent abuse, and through Tranquility she has become as she is.

Above all questions stood one: what should she do with that knowledge?

Cassandra has lost her sleep over it. Though an investigation into the matter was launched, and her duties kept her busy and tired, during nighttime she would lie in her bed, exhausted, catching an hour or two of anxious slumber. Bags under her eyes almost matched Cullen’s; Commander has expressed his concern, but Cassandra simply brushed it off. After all, it was she who was supposed to assess his mental state, not vice-versa. But in that current state, her judgment would not be worth much, and that meant that something had to be done.

Physical exercise did not help, and neither did sharing. She came to Mother Giselle, and she encouraged the Seeker to speak up. Together, they visited the Tranquil and explained that they could be cured. But most expressed their reservations and wanted to stay the way they were. She told the Inquisitor of what she had learned, and the Inquisitor strongly supported her in her investigations. And still, Cassandra was no longer a warrior she thought herself to be.

Apparently, it was a health issue after all.

She opened the door of the infirmary, gently, not to startle the in-patients. The healer didn’t seem to notice her enter, and turned his head to look at the visitor only when Cassandra approached him. Anders sized the woman up and down and asked, “Are you injured?”

She didn’t like the idea of turning to a blasphemer for help, but she trusted the Inquisitor’s judgment. Still feeling uneasy around the man who recently got separated from a demon that had been possessing him for over ten years, Cassandra decided to be careful but firm.

“No, I- word around Skyhold is you make this sleeping powder?” In her head, it sounded like a statement, but out of her mouth it came out as a question.

Anders limped to his desk, where many phials and bottles stood in disarray. “Well, they are right on this account, but I don’t exactly keep a stock of such mixtures, it’s a relatively rare request. If you’re willing to wait, I can prepare a some,” the healer saw her nod tiredly, reached a shelf with unsteady, shaky steps and took a mortar and a pestle, “although if it’s sleeplessness you came with, it wouldn’t be a cure but a half measure.”

“I would not come to you if I had any other choice,” Cassandra replied harshly.

Anders raised his eyebrow, but did not react otherwise. He lowered his head and opened a sack of herbs, picking some and placing them in the mortar. “All I meant,” he said, “is that insomnia can be remedied, but we’ll do even better if we search for the root cause.”

Again, Cassandra was rigid, crossing her hands on her chest and regretting her decision to see Anders more and more by the minute. “And what might this cause be?”

“Stress, most commonly,” he said, focused on his work, mincing and crushing the ingredients with experienced and confident moves, “you aren’t the first one to complain about it, and I suspect you won’t be the last.”

How to treat him... she could never decide. From one standpoint, he was fighting a losing fight even before the rebellion started, which was… _romantic_ , but his methods were so abhorrent she could neither justify nor ignore it. Neither could she be blind to the fact that the Kirkwall atrocity could have been avoided were the abuses investigated properly. Evidently, it was far worse than the Chantry presented it, since it led a _believer_ to murder and destruction of the temple of his own faith. This was what scared her the most – a possibility that the Chantry might be dead in the hearts of the people – and she was petrified that a man of faith could resort to outright heretical actions. Or perhaps it was due to his state of possession, and faith had nothing to do with it. Cassandra has been watching him ever since the Inquisition returned from Adamant, and so did Commander Cullen. Anders clearly didn’t like being watched, but did not show anything besides solid commitment; he has been nothing but a hard-working man. The Inquisitor insisted they weaken their grasp, and it led to a terrible quarrel between her and Cullen; Cassandra was forced to intervene. They had Anders handed to the Inquisitor as a personal responsibility, and he was left alone.

She did not want him to be right about her sleeplessness, but had to admit he was, even though Cassandra herself has come to the same conclusion on her own. Sadly, she was no match to his level of medical expertise and decided to listen to what he had to say. “What do you suggest?” she asked.

“Stress relief activities. Stop overworking. Grab a drink. Read a good book. Kiss someone.” Anders hid his smile as saw her cringe in discomfort. Cassandra did not answer, and he continued working on the powder in silence for a couple of minutes while she was waiting.

“You are a Seeker of Truth, aren’t you?” he asked, suddenly.

“I am,” Cassandra replied, her face features getting sharper around the edges.

“There’s this rumor circulating… I was hoping you as a Seeker could clarify something.” Anders unscrewed a bottle containing some strange yellowish liquid and poured it in an empty jar. Cassandra watched him to check whether if he would attempt to poison her. The smell of that liquid gave out embrium essence. She sighed with relief.

“Ask,” she said, “but I cannot promise I will give you an answer.”

“They say that Tranquility is reversible, and always has been,” he looked at Cassandra, putting away the jars and waiting for the chemical reaction to brew.

She paled slightly. Holding an answer would avail nothing; the truth had been discovered long before she was handed the tome and saw it for herself.

“It is.”

“Is it also true that it was created by the Seekers?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Cassandra snapped, then almost screeched, “Dorian Pavus is the source of this rumor you’ve heard, isn’t he?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Anders countered ambiguously only to hear the Seeker let out a disgusted noise, “Look, Seeker, I can see what you’re trying to do here-”

“And what might it be,” Cassandra interrupted him brashly, “that you can see it so clearly?”

“You are trying to restore the Chantry. And succeeding, for now.” Anders saw her glaring at him suspiciously and took a second to look at the jar in which a substance was bubbling. “I would not do such a thing. I would leave it alone, were it up to me, but it is not, luckily for you. The Inquisitor might be right; it will never be the same, and, apparently, you will play a huge role in shaping the Chantry,” a spark appeared in his eyes, “you cannot deny you’ve seen how low it has fallen. If you want to restore it not just in strength, but in people’s souls, you must tell them the truth!”

Her already dark eyes almost went full black. “You’re telling _me_ what to do? You think _you_ can lecture me about what is right?”

He stood up. “If you keep it quiet, it will come out eventually, and it will crush the Chantry again! How many schisms can it live through, Seeker? How many faithful will turn away? How many excommunications will follow? Heresies? Vile practices such as the Rite of Tranquility should never have been forced on the unwilling; it shouldn’t be performed on anyone! Yet it has been used on mages, and on mages only-”

“No it hasn’t!” Cassandra yelled. She wished she could stuff the words back in her throat, but couldn’t, so instead she kicked a chair and overturned it.

There was a quiet groan from behind white screens where the sick lay. Anders raised his palm and went, hobbling, to check on his patient. When he returned, his eyes were wide and his hands were shaking. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

At this point, she had nothing to lose and was too tired to argue. The infirmary only housed patients in critical condition, so they, at least, were unlikely to comprehend what they were talking about. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice significantly. “The Seekers receive their abilities through overcoming Tranquility,” Cassandra said reluctantly, “we count no mages among us.”

“But all Tranquil bear a mark on their foreheads,” he squinted his eyes in denial, but went on showering Cassandra with questions that immediately appeared in his head, “if you are a Seeker, how come you don’t have one? Was it erased through the reversal? Or is the ritual performed differently on mages?”

“I’m not certain. I never conducted the ritual myself, and although I was subjected to it, I cannot say that I recall anything resembling a brand.”

The healer froze, stumbled, and eventually collapsed on a chair. His face turned into a grimace of pure disgust. “But that can only mean one thing…”

“Which I have also suspected after I learned the truth,” the Seeker noted in a hard voice.

“It’s what, purely cosmetic? We are born with the brand,” Anders mumbled, detached, “what is that mark then, a nice fucking finishing touch? As if it wasn’t enough already and they have to wear a literal badge of shame? How did it come to this, Seeker?”

“I don’t know,” Cassandra responded, irritation obvious on her face, “but those responsible for it are long dead, although I do not see it as an adequate consolation.”

“But you can change that, can’t you?”

“Make no mistake, mage. We Seekers have failed in our duty,” – a dry acknowledgment that did not come easily, “but we will be restored and rededicated to the Maker’s work, like it was always intended. The principles on which the Chantry was founded must be preserved.”

“Those principles don’t include branding mages like cattle!”

“They do not. The matter is currently being investigated. That is all you need to know.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Anders grabbed his staff and used it to help himself stand.

“If you know about the cure, you probably know that prolonged exposure to the effects of Tranquility makes one extremely unstable after it is reversed. I have personally questioned the Tranquil residing in Skyhold, and most actually turned down the opportunity. I can give no promises. There are many factors to consider, and we are yet to learn who becomes the next Divine and whether there will be reforms.”

The powder has settled in a jar, and Anders handed it to Cassandra. “Take with water,” he said.

The Seeker took a jar from his hands and nodded. “I must ask you to keep the details of this conversation undisclosed.”

“I will do as you ask,” the healer replied defiantly, “but only if I have your word that you will reveal the truth and use it to change things. Otherwise, I can give no promises.”

Cassandra was already at the threshold. “I can’t say when such an opportunity will arise. It may be not be soon.”

“It’s better than never.”

The door closed.

 

When he went to sleep, in his mind, he was reenacting the conversation between him and the Seeker over and over. She did not seem convinced by his words and pleads, but Anders could recognize in her a willingness and sufficient strength to bring reforms, or at the very least try to do so.

The revelation was a chilling one. To him, it was perfectly obvious why the Tranquil would not want to be cured: with their sundering from the Fade, they were indoctrinated — not through belief, like templars, — forevermore. In the Circle, one is expected to express certain beliefs, but one cannot be deprived of their own thoughts. All this is taken away in an uneven trade, a free mind to an iron certainty and blind obedience.

What if Karl didn’t have to die?

The thought sent shivers down his spine, and he shifted nervously on a straw mattress, crumpling soiled sheets — stationed in the infirmary, Anders was sleeping on one of the hospital beds, pulled to his desk, — and he covered himself with a thin blanket that was a bit short for his height.

He was absolutely certain that if someone wanted to break their Tranquility, it would be Karl. They both strongly opposed the practice, and he himself had chosen death over a life as a drooling vegetable. So would Anders. If Karl was cured, everything could go differently. In Kirkwall, his staunchest and only support came from Regan and several friends in the mage underground; by others, he was constantly ridiculed, threatened, or worse. With Karl, their efforts would have been undoubtedly stronger, rebellion sooner, perhaps bloodless-

It was a foolish hope. Anders knew it could never be. Nothing would have stopped Meredith. Blood would have been spilled. There would be sacrifices. Needless deaths. His manifesto would have been banned, those having copies in their homes persecuted as mage sympathizers. Nothing would change. The circles would still dissolve; Kirkwall was not the only city in Thedas where barbarous acts were being committed. But there could have been a subtle change. Perhaps, half of Kirkwall would not be buried under rubble. Perhaps, he would lead the mages, armed with their support. Perhaps, Justice wouldn’t have turned.

He would never know.

Now, Anders had certainty. He, too, had made an uneven trade: his sanity and soundness of mind to strength to keep going and accomplish the goals he then had set for himself. It was meaningless to ruminate on that endlessly. All he could do now is to lend his aid, however he could. If the change was being brought into this world, he did not mind being in a more passive role, ensuring safety of others.

Before Regan left for Jader, he got to spend the night with her in his arms. They talked, mostly. The mage could not remember the last time they had such a touching and satisfying conversation. He has not told her that healing has become more of a strain since his exorcism, that sometimes emptiness was overwhelming and painful. Otherwise, he was completely honest, removing her hair from her face with is fingers and caressing her tenderly. The day Anders never dared dream of finally came. They were fugitives no longer. Notorious or hated, may be, but not fugitives.

And they had their love unquenched.

 

One morning a few weeks later a Skyhold messenger, an awkward and fat-lipped boy named Jim, handed him two letters — one was a simple note, another in an envelope with an unbroken Grey Warden seal. He was surprised; it was a known fact that the spymaster reads all coming mail. It must be a trusted source, then, he thought. Anders hoped the sealed letter was from Nathaniel Howe, to whom he wrote some time ago. He read the note first. It was brief.

 _Thank you  
_ _\--Seeker Pentaghast_

Cassandra never showed up after he had given her a small jar of sleeping powder. Anders didn’t know what she thanked him for, a stress relief advice, the powder itself or something else entirely. He was more than puzzled, and had no choice but to open the second letter with a knife. Inside, he found something he never hoped he’d see. It was exhilarating.

 _Anders,_  
_Wise choice, in the end. Make amends.  
_ _\--Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Athelstan Amell_

 

A few days later Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast issued a public statement confirming that the cure for Tranquility indeed existed, albeit declaring the details to be temporarily undisclosed while the reversal ritual was under thorough investigation before it could be attempted and performed safely.

He had managed to find a common language with the most zealous woman of the Inquisition. Anders knew that all he had to resort to was not in vain, and he was ready to mend the wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So NOW it's finished.


End file.
